


Customer of the Month

by ziamhaze



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Art, Artist Zayn Malik, Barista Liam Payne, Fantasy, Fluff, Graphic Novel, M/M, Self-Discovery, Time Travel, author zayn, too - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 63,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziamhaze/pseuds/ziamhaze
Summary: When Liam finally builds up the courage to talk to the quiet regular at the cafe he works at to tell him he’s Customer of the Month, he hopes to learn what it is that keeps the man coming back every day. Maybe find out if he’s noticed Liam all these months too.  But the barista’s taken on a wild ride when he discovers that the humble patron isn’t just a graphic novel creator, he can enter his stories and experience them alongside his characters too.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 11
Kudos: 58
Collections: Ziam Fantasy Fest





	Customer of the Month

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you to every last person who read my last fic (along with the rest!), it’s gotten such a great response and holds such a dear place in my heart in terms of my narrative skills. I really really appreciate all the love.
> 
> This fic wasn’t actually supposed to be a fantasy fic at all. As we all know, in the ziam fic world, there are various au’s that, as a writer, you sort of have to touch on - Harry Potter, superheroes, uni/boarding school, kid fics, famous athlete liam, model zayn, supernatural (werewolf, vampires, etc), and of course, the almighty coffee shop au.
> 
> Originally, all I had in mind was to write a story where zayn was a graphic novel creator and went to a coffee shop a lot to work on them. That was it. Then the fantasy fest was brought to my attention and here we are. What a lot of people don’t know is that I actually work on these fics full-time, and because of that, I myself, on more days than not, work from a cafe. One of which I wrote the entirety of the cardiology story, going in every single day for six or seven hours, and yet never became the customer of the week. Out of frustration, I thought, I have to incorporate this into my coffee shop au and viola. In fact, all of the occurrences that are observed of customers (incl. Liam’s regulars) are all first hand experiences I’ve had going from cafe to cafe. Unfortunately quarantine hasn’t allowed me to go for a while, and because of that, writing this fic was actually really really difficult. Shoutout to all the creatives who, even though they were literally locked in their houses, couldn’t find the brainpower to work! But alas, I made it out alive and here you all go.
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta reader Megan for being my amazing set of second eyes (I couldn’t do this without you) and Elina for making it possible that I get to use some pretty cool software for my picspams!
> 
> Disclaimers:
> 
> \+ Art is art - I did quite a bit of deep diving to see what graphic novel writing/drawing is like, but every artist is different, so while zayn’s utensils and software are accurate, not everyone works on a similar schedule like him (hardly any are one person teams)  
> \+ Historical accuracies for the different genres - wild west terminology, time period architecture/dress/weaponry, watches that are appropriate for each time period - were all researched, so I hope to have done them justice as they’ve been written  
> \+ Coffee snobs - hey, I did my best
> 
> Transitioning from the last fic was an easy one, as superheroes are often the main subject of comics - a subgenre of graphic novels (don’t forget that, this characterization of zayn will get mad if you don’t). I read loads of different genres of graphic novels for this one, so I hope it comes out as fun as it’s meant to be.
> 
> AND FINALLY - I’ve recently had to file claims against people stealing and reposting my work on other sites. Once posted to AO3, I, the author, hold all rights to the piece. If I see that people are reposting or even translating on other sites without my permission, I will pursue action.
> 
> Now, to the rest of you who are loyal, please enjoy.

**Chapter 1**

Today’s the day. It has to be. For roughly seven months Liam’s mulled over the possible outcomes if he were to ever speak his request out loud. For 210 days, he’s looked forward to the morning where he’d be able to wake up and not immediately dismiss the idea from a lack of courage. Finally, that morning’s come.

Aside from the scraping of sliding hangers, the one bedroom flat’s silent. Unless you count Liam’s fervent energy, then it’s as loud as the wheels of a Boeing 747 hitting tarmac. He’s quick to pick out a simple outfit of a short sleeve polo and jeans, throwing each piece of clothing onto the queen sized bed he’s just sprung out of. The duvet that drapes over it is a neutral red colour. Not rich like a freshly snipped rose or light like chapped lips having been nibbled on in the cold. Middle of the spectrum red.

It’s Liam’s favourite colour, has been ever since he can remember, and while many have tried to explain to him throughout his life what red being his favourite colour says about him as a person - that he’s loyal, confident, strong - he doesn’t see it that way. To him, the shade’s simply pleasing to the eye. Orange and yellow are too alarming (jarring almost) as are the blues and purples further down the rainbow, just in a more heavy sense of the word. But maybe that’s the thing. Maybe having red as his favourite colour did mean something, just not in the way people had always tried to get him to believe. Preference based on indifference. Now _that_ speaks volumes about Liam and the life he’s led so far.

In a nutshell, it’s nothing special. At times, Liam tends to think he’s plateaued. Then again, in order to reach a point of distinguishable flatlining, there has to have been some sort of uphill climb to begin with. He’s not sure what that ascent might’ve looked like other than literal adolescence.

In the shower, he uses the same woodsy, all natural body wash he’s bought since he was twelve. When he steps out, he trims his beard down to an even one centimeter, mustache included, identical to how he’s worn it from the day testosterone let him. He supposes his fashion sense has changed over the years, but not by much. He still prefers more simplistic block colouring or plaid tops over ostentatious patterns and risky textures. But growing up in Wolverhampton, England, who was there to really impress? It wasn’t a city worth anything more than a working class upbringing. Not like London, where people planned their outfits weeks in advance to impress whoever it was they were meeting for a quick bite in between yoga and a haughty wine tasting. Or Manchester, where the university crowd mixed together with the growing number of art aficionados, making the population an eclectic melting pot of personalities and wardrobes. Wolverhampton isn’t even big enough to be considered one of the country’s major cities like neighboring Birmingham, and yet, at the same time, it isn’t small enough to be categorized as a quaint village. Much like how Liam’s favourite colour symbolized how plain his life is, so does his place of birth.

Waiting for the bus isn’t pleasant at five thirty in the morning. The sun’s just barely broken above the horizon, painting the city’s suburb community a pale, cold blue to match the temperature. At least waking up this early helps to ensure he gets the seat closest to the rattling heater. If he used his savings to buy a car, he wouldn't need to bundle up into his thickly lined jacket every time the bus jerked to a halt and exchanged a portion of its warm air for a passenger to either come or go. It’s the harsh slap in the face that Liam’s coat can’t protect him from each time the two doors break their suction that always puts a damper on his spirit and reminds him of how pathetic his life probably looks to most people. Even on rare days, like today, where he has a rush of energy coursing through him at the thought of unscrewing the lid on one of his long-lasting desires, that gush of freezing cold air never ceases to get to him.

 _I should just buy a used car_ , he thinks to himself as he watches the street that leads down to his old primary school pass by. _I’ve got the money. I should just pull the trigger and do it. I never go anywhere. I don’t have any real hobbies. My savings account’s just sitting there, accruing an amount of interest as meager as my life._

But the temporary wave of self-pity gives way to unbridled enthusiasm as his destination comes into view: Early Bird Cafe.

The family owned shop sits on the corner of one of the busier city centre intersections - busy on Wolverhampton standards. Because of its prime location, the entire right wall made of windows offers the perfect view for those looking to people watch over a cup of coffee; three wooden tables pushed up against the glass makes it easy, especially for the students that should really be revising, but instead stare out as misty rain coats the slick street in procrastination.

Liam can always tell the lazy students from the ones who genuinely plan on completing their work; they would’ve had no problem doing it at home or at the library, but a change in scenery and caffeine boost is a necessary reward. Those students (or the self-employed, it’s always hard to tell in this day in age with more and more young people finding ways to make a solid living online) always sat at the barstool area, along the shop’s front window. It’s made of the same charcoal grey stone that the front counter is and juts out from the glass just enough that a laptop can sit and there still be room for a person to rest their wrists on it. With the front counter facing the window bar and table in between, Liam’s spent a good amount of his down time watching those sat on the wrought iron stools, enough to be able to confidently guess that the reason the studious favour them over the wooden tables is because they don’t have any space to spread out what isn’t needed; there’s only room for efficiency, and efficiency equals success.

Most mornings, flipping on the lights to the cafe makes Liam feel like God. Or, depending on his mood, Dr. Frankenstein bringing his monster to life. The storefront’s illumination looks like a machine switching on with its various recessed lighting fixtures flickering on in sections. First the front third of the cafe, then the middle, and finally the back where a mahogany leather couch and a matching coffee table sit against the wall next to a velvet throne chair angled outward in the far right corner. At least once a year, Liam makes a comment to the owner about how he should probably consider buying a new sofa since they’ve had this one since he started working there ten years ago and it’s about one overweight teenager away from caving in on itself, but his suggestion clearly hasn’t been taken seriously. _At least I tried_ , he always tells himself after another staff meeting goes by where his words fall on deaf ears.

But even with the ratty, worn out couch giving him and Josh, the youngest staffer who comes in on the weekends and the odd evening after sixth form, trouble cleaning out its deep creases and tears, Liam considers Early Bird Cafe his second home. It holds a special place in his heart, right below the home he grew up in about fifteen minutes north and above the two apartments he’s lived in since moving out at age twenty-one, when his best mate from college, Andy, graduated university and came back to town asking if Liam wanted to split a two bed flat. It only took two years for Andy to realize that while it was nice to be back with old friends and close to his family, Wolverhampton wasn’t for him. He’d gotten a taste of life outside of the midlands and like an animal discovering what blood tastes like for the first time, he couldn’t ever go back. It left Liam with the one bedroom he’s currently renting, and a crack in his heart, as thin as a hairline, but there nonetheless.

He never had the opportunity to sink his teeth into the real world (as complacent in his whereabouts he may be, Liam isn’t ignorant to the point that he believes adulthood in Wolverhampton really counts as that). For him, the cafe was his university. It had been close to being his college years too, but he lost that fight with his mother as quick as it came. “You’re halfway done with your A-Levels. I’m not letting you quit now, and especially not because you’ve taken such a liking to that new job of yours serving people coffee.” He didn’t think she’d meant for it to come off as elitist as it had, like being a barista was a job only for those with low IQ points, and she _had_ apologized once her own wording registered, but Liam still wishes he’d done more than nod and leave for his six hour shift. Because he’s sure back then, with only a couple months of time on the clock, he did seem abnormally overzealous about his first job as a barista. But he was naive (arguably still is), and for once, actually took a liking to something on his own accord, so he didn’t think it was too crazy for him to feel imprisoned any time he was on campus and not the the D45 bus, headed across town to practice making lattes.

Surprisingly, they only had one, mildly heated debate during his last year of schooling on why Liam felt like university would be a waste of money (“If I don’t know what I want to do in life, and I hate sitting in a classroom, then I’m not going to pay twenty thousand pounds hoping that studying History for three years will magically give me an idea as to what career path to take”). He knew where his mother was coming from, wanting her son to be the first in the family to attend and break the cycle. He’d probably end up doing the same to his own children one day. But it just wasn’t for him, so after he put in the required effort it took to pass both his A-Levels, he looked his entire family peacefully in the eyes over the celebratory results dinner they threw for him and gave them the answer to the question he knew they were all itching to ask: what now Liam?

“I’m going to start working full-time at the cafe I’m at now. I really like it there, and as long as I’m happy, that’s all that really matters, right?”

For the most part, he was met with accepting smiles, but he knew that behind a few of them, his relatives were wondering how much that paid, and is this going to set him up for a future or lead him straight down the path to becoming one of those forty year olds that never move out of their parents’? Those that weren’t thinking that, the ones who were genuinely happy for him (possibly even jealous that he had the guts to pursue a so called “passion”, no matter how bleak it might be in regards to future prospects), were just waiting to see when this phase would be over and life for him would really start. He doubts any of them expected to still be receiving employee discounts eight and a half years later.

But here Liam is, twenty-six, nearly twenty-seven, sliding behind the same counter he has for a decade, just more brawny and fully grown into his frame.

Screwed into the wall are six metal hooks, different colour aprons hanging from each. After throwing his set of keys to the shop in the till box under the counter, he covers his polo with red and fastens the tie behind him. Neatly, along his right breast, his name’s embroidered in white. It’s not a particularly unique name. In fact, there hasn’t been a year since Liam was born when it hasn’t ranked in the top ten most popular British boys names, but for some reason, it looks a lot more distinct threaded.

He basks in the scent of this month’s speciality Colombian blend straight from the jute burlap sack it was shipped in - a faint caramel that grows exponentially stronger when he measures out the appropriate amount for four cups and grinds the russet pieces down to a fine dust. He knows from experience that in about an hour, no soul would be able to identify the spicy lavender of his cologne (bought for himself for Christmas last year as a mediocre attempt at trying to bring change to his life), not even if they were right on top of him, the smell of coffee will overpower it. An extra squeeze of liquid detergent and his clothes would return to the bountiful fragrance “unscented”.

He’s learned a lot of small tips and tricks like that during his time at Early Bird. Beforehand, he’d never known that cold water and white wine vinegar get out coffee stains way better than any brand name spray, or that a single drop of hot chocolate can ruin a jumper if not treated immediately. But those are trivial takeaways from the job. It’s the life lessons that Liam’s learned, many of which he witnessed his friends in university pick up at the same pace, that further justified his not attending alongside them (and gave him great relief that he hadn’t made the wrong decision). For instance, responsibly managing your finances, efficiently balancing your time, successfully operating on your own, out from under the watchful eye of your guardians, and being able to juggle a relationship with all of the above. But the skill he considers to be the most valuable: how to come out of your shell. Working with the types of characters that he does, and dealing with the sorts of customers that come in, Liam wouldn’t have survived this long without it.

Exhibit one: Niall Horan.

As he’s waiting for boiling water to turn into coffee by way of slowly seeping through a layer of grinds and hemp filter, Liam spots the Irishman out the front window, talking to the point-and-shoot camera in his hand, that cost more than three months of Liam’s rent, while simultaneously checking to make sure that the road’s safe to cross. He’s a lot shorter than Liam, but that doesn’t reflect in his personality. In the dictionary, next to the definition of happy-go-lucky, there’s a picture of Niall, smiling. Its bashfulness is a modest attempt at trying to hide the arrogance he holds of being aware of just how good looking he is. He’s charming in the way a football captain might be, genuine to win his team’s trust and personable to get them cheering in the crowd. Liam doesn’t need to know anything about social media to know it’s the exact reason why hundreds of thousands of people care to watch Niall in the weekly videos he puts out documenting his life.

“Oh thank god,” he practically moans, camera turned so it’s angled to capture the overly exaggerated expression of gratitude that he’s showing. “Liam’s got a pour over with my name written all over it.”

When the camera gets turned around, Liam has no choice but to smile graciously, “With a splash of cream ready to be added.”

One look at the carton on the side of the four individual setups and Niall’s fatigued grin pulls up even higher. “You’re a saint. If any of you are ever in Wolverhampton, you have to come in and have this guy make you a cup. Best barista in the country, I’m telling you.”

Liam doesn’t dismiss the praise, but he certainly doesn’t think he deserves it either. If after four years of working together, he didn’t know how to perfect Niall’s order, then he’d fully accept the title of ‘lost cause’.

A short beep signals that his every move has stopped being recorded, Niall stuffing the thin camera into his backpack that hangs over his left shoulder lazily, full of other expensive recording devices not unlike the one he just stashed away. “They all have specific uses,” Niall had lectured him early on in their friendship, when the cameras first started to make a daily appearance. “One’s got a good zoom, another’s good for closeups, and this one is lightweight and does a good job.” He’d been holding up the exact Nikon that was just put away. “C’mon Liam, get with the times.” It was said with such goodwill that Liam let the beratement slide with nothing other than an affectionate shoulder check and consideration of whether or not he should abate his loneliness and ask Niall if he wanted to move in together. But then Niall would start to go on about a new song he learned to play on his guitar and Liam would thank his lucky stars that he doesn’t have the impulse to act on his wishes because he’s not sure how his mental state would fair having to listen to 80’s soft rock drifting through his home at all hours of the night. And that’s on top of never knowing if a trip to the kitchen would call for a photoshoot. Living with Niall could easily turn into a nightmare.

“Staff meeting days are the worst,” the other man whines, joining him behind the counter after slinging his backpack onto the pine table nearest him. “Can’t stand having to come in thirty minutes early just to hear Louis try and wake himself up by talking. He never has anything new to say anyway. Does anyone have any complaints?” Niall mimics in a sluggish northern accent. “Inventory good? Sales have been steady, good job everyone. Anyone taking a holiday soon? No? Ok, meeting adjourned.”

Liam’s short chuckle mixes in with the sound of an hourglass beaker being emptied into one of the ceramic mugs that the shop has collected at random over the years from various stores and employee travels (a staple of the original Early Bird Cafe peeking through the recent modernization); it’s the exact script his boss uses every two weeks. Little does Niall know, thanks to Liam’s extraordinarily rare surge of fearlessness, today’s speech is going to go a little differently than normal.

“Speak of the devil,” Niall mutters after thanking Liam for the mug and stirring in his cream.

In an oversized hoodie, and a pair of light wash jeans, ripped, right below the knees, Louis throws his weight into the front door. It shakes violently. If he hadn’t inherited the shop from his mum after she passed three years ago, there’s no way any employer would allow him to set foot near an espresso machine.

As he makes his way over, both Liam and Niall stay silent. They know if you speak before spoken to this early, you should expect a wrath of fury. In the form of words of course. Because while Louis may have a strong presence, he wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight. He’s far too short and unaware of how to use his body for anything other than assertions in line when he can’t be bothered to wait and someone does themselves a disservice by glancing to the side for a moment too long.

“Hey,” he mumbles, reaching for the mug Liam’s pushing his way; black, nothing to get in the way of caffeine reaching his system the quickest. No matter how many times he’s told Louis that’s not how it works, Liam knows there’s no persuading a person as stubborn as an ox; he should just make the drink the way he knows will get him a paycheck and leave it at that.

“Morning,” Liam replies, Niall following suit right after.

“Liam.” He looks up from emptying the third glass beaker. “This is shit,” Louis denounces behind his mug, “get it together.” As he takes another sip, a long one that might very well have drained half the cup, his ocean blue eyes turn calm; the treacherous waters caused by an early wake up call have eased into harmless waves lapping at the shore, a hint of devilishness hidden in their undertow.

It’s how Louis always operates - with love, but only in between lines - a method that Liam wasn’t incredibly fond of early on, but has grown to appreciate. Especially since he’s one of the few people on the receiving end of it. But it didn’t start out that way. Or maybe it had, and Liam was just so headstrong on getting Louis to like him and see that a quiet person was worth getting to know, that he didn’t realize the incessant teasing sent his way was out of reverence and not malice.

It was only after Liam had been wearing an apron for six months that Louis decided to let his guard down and spell out his game. “You know I was only fucking about earlier,” he’d told him when it was just the two of them closing up. “I didn’t mean it when I said you don’t know how to clean the grinders properly. You’re the best employee I’ve got.” The vulnerable confession would have been enough for Liam, but the extra praise and hearing himself be looked at like Louis’ go-to soldier on the battlefield meant more to him than the other man knew. Although, it didn’t compare to how he felt when Louis had repeated those exact words five years later for the first time under the title “Owner”, and not simply “Manager” or “The Owner’s Son”. Louis was just two weeks shy of turning twenty-five. His mother was forty-four.

She had opened the shop up with her entire life’s savings when Liam was just a baby. The interior looked a lot different than it does now, a lot more mix-matched furniture and used machinery. It had a charm to it though, and the best blueberry scones Liam’s ever had. Any time he knew his parents’ errands would involve coming to this part of town, he’d ask if they could stop and get one. They didn’t always have a lot of spare money for the month, but he never skipped out on asking just in case they’d say yes.

Unlike Louis, his mother was the poster woman for the term ‘early bird’. It’s why Liam thinks the cafe’s named what it is, but her explanation during his interview was that she didn’t feel as though there were any coffee shops open early enough in the city for workers and students alike. Her eyes lit up the moment Liam had let her know that he wasn’t like other sixteen, almost seventeen year olds, he enjoyed getting up with the sun. It seemed that was all she needed to hear, the weekend job was his in a matter of minutes.

When he started, Louis was eighteen and manager of the afternoon shift, so they only overlapped hours briefly, but Liam had known him as the little boy who would, without fail, be hopping around the shop somewhere each time Liam’s parents stopped in. Despite never showing it to the public, Louis was a real mummy’s boy. That had been apparent to Liam early on when on more than one occasion he’d accidentally walk in on them hugging while going to the back for cleaning supplies or the odd time he’d catch Louis on the phone to her and his tone would completely change from teen-on-a-power-trip to soft archangel. That’s why when she passed from Leukemia as young and as quickly as she had, Louis was beside himself.

They were just about to renovate the interior to the modern oasis it is now when she died. And if weren’t for the fact that Louis’ suggested facelift, along with the extended hours to make them the city’s latest open coffee shop as well as the earliest, was already approved by his mother, Liam knows the young man wouldn’t have so much as moved a napkin in a feeble attempt to keep her alive.

She may not have been his blood, but Liam missed the woman greatly. He would’ve been there to help pick up the slack around the cafe no matter what, but her death only made it so that he went the extra mile and stayed late to help the renovation crew, unpaid. There were a few nights when it was just him and Louis, painting the walls or sweeping up the day’s sawdust, where he felt their relationship shift from chummy co-workers to bonded friends. Liam would be collecting screws off the ground, adding to his days exhaustion, when behind him, to his side, in the back room, somewhere near, he’d hear the sound of a broken man collapsing in on himself in grief. In those moments, all he would do was make Louis a cup of tea, and sit with him quietly until he was too tired to cry any more. Liam’s never spoken of those instances out loud, and in the back of his mind, he thinks that Louis loves him a little more because of it.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Louis grumbles more so as a motivator to himself than to the other two.

There’s a small alcove cut into the wall at the end of the corridor leading to the kitchen and storage area where they keep various stationary and paperwork. It’s obvious that’s where Louis’ gone off to when he resurfaces with a steno pad under his arm and a cheap pen behind his ear.

“We’ve gotta wait for Josie,” Niall reminds him as he follows Louis to one of the window tables.

“She’s always late. Why haven’t I fired her yet?”

“Because she’s the only one who can perfect your mum’s old recipes.” A beat. Then, “and she’s hot.”

Liam smiles down at the coffee he’s just finished preparing the girl who Niall’s just flagrantly objectified; she takes it with three sugars, no more, no less. Neither he, nor Louis comment on the observation because it’s true, anyone with eyes would agree. She’s light skinned and of Croatian descent with a majority of the right side of her head shaved down to short blonde spikes. It’s a hairstyle straight from 2011, but with her confident attitude and preppy wardrobe, she owns the look just as well now as she probably had back in secondary school.

She’s enticing in a way Liam’s not, and on a day much like today where he was overcome with boldness, he thought that maybe she might like that - a man unlike herself. When he’d told Niall that he planned on asking her out after she inevitably clocked in ten minutes late, the Irishman couldn’t keep himself together. “You know I love you Liam, but you’re punching a bit above your weight, don’t you think? She hardly gives anyone a second glance. Trust me, I’ve been watching.” To say Liam had the last laugh wouldn’t entirely be accurate considering after one date, he and Josie both mutually decided they were best as friends, the chemistry just wasn’t there like they thought it could’ve been, but it did feel good to watch Niall’s jaw drop when they all hung up their aprons for the day and Josie let Liam know that she’d text him later once she’d come up with a good day for their date.

“Sorry I’m late,” the girl says as soon as her petite frame rushes through the front door. On her way to the table Louis and Niall are sitting at, she flattens her shirt’s white collar that had flown up in her light jog down the sidewalk.

Niall leans back in his seat, grinning. “It’s alright, we’d always wait for you.”

Liam can practically hear Louis’ eye roll from where he’s pouring a splash of vanilla almond milk into his mug; combined with the earthy tones of this particular Colombian roast, the extra sweetness is heavenly—but not too much, otherwise the drink will lose its savor.

“What would I do without you?” Josie says in relief once Liam takes the seat next to her with not one, but two mugs, giving him a kiss on the cheek in thanks before snagging the darker of the drinks. Liam bites the inside of his cheek at the almost undetectable jealousy that passes over Niall’s face.

“Alright, now that we’re all here…” The pen behind Louis’ ear falls from its perch and onto the yellow tinted paper in front of him after he shakes his head back and forth listlessly. “Does anyone have any complaints?” Niall and Liam smile at each other knowingly as the former’s script begins to be played out. “On our end of things or the customers’?” When no one responds, Louis writes ‘NO COMPLAINTS’ on the first line, scribbling the date, June 28th, above it, then underneath, ‘INVENTORY’. “How are we looking on inventory? The shipment for July’s Ethiopian special came in yesterday. We don’t have much of the Colombian left, do we?”

“No, practically all sold out,” Niall answers, trying to nick the pen out of Louis’ grasp out of boredom. “Liam made a good call with that one.”

Louis’ eyes narrow across the table, “He better have with the Ethiopian too.”

Liam hides behind his mug, unphased by his boss’ empty threat and committed to having faith in his nomination for the upcoming month’s speciality roast. He doesn’t need to indulge Louis and play into one of his traps of amusement, what he needs is to wet his drying mouth. Without the distraction of having drinks to concoct, his brain’s starting to catch up with the enormity of what it’s about to do. The idea that it’s wanted to unleash for what seems like lifetimes, finally ready to be hatched into the world.

“Where can I see the flavour profile for that again?” Josie asks. “It might be nice to switch out one of the lower selling cookies or spiced breads with a recipe that compliments whatever the special will be. It’d be an easy upsell too.”

“And that’s why I’d never think to fire you,” Louis states proudly, jotting down a few notes.

Niall snorts while Liam simply lets the girl know that he’ll write down the main taste descriptors after they’re done.

Once he’s capped his pen, Louis moves on to boasting about his business owner skills and how proud he is that of the sixteen people he employs, only half of them are part-time. But apparently one from the weekend afternoon crew is going out of town next weekend and needs a replacement.

Niall’s quick to offer himself up for the extra shift. “YouTube pays, but my brother and I really want to go to Australia for Christmas this year. I need all the money I can get.”

From there the conversation turns into something a lot more informal, starting off with Australia as a holiday spot altogether and morphing into an argument between Josie and Louis on how the latter really needs to take some time off. If Liam wasn’t fading in and out of the discussion, he would’ve agreed and given his own two cents about Louis' being a hard worker, contrary to popular belief (and sometimes appearance). But his head is going a mile a minute now that it knows what’s next, whirling itself into a knot so twisted, that even though a part of him’s responsible for creating it, he can’t seem to find one of its ends.

“Yeah, like Liam.”

His name said in a distinct Irish accent triggers his brain into taking a brief pause from eating away at itself.

“Hmm?” He asks in a timbre he hopes will come across as convincing. It doesn’t.

Louis shakes his head with a resounding sense of disapproval. “Repeat back to me the last thing I said,” he demands, grounded in much more genuine aggravation than Liam expected.

Feverishly, but without trying to show it, Liam begs for his memory to recall what it can of the past minute’s chatter. To buy himself time, he fills the air with a length “um”, grateful that he had, because when he hears Louis’ “unbelievable”, followed by, “Niall, you’re the morning manager and my new favourite employee. Effective immediately” it’s safe to say that he hadn’t missed a thing, Louis’ theatrics were just becoming increasingly more believable as he got older.

“Yeah right,” Niall scoffs. “Like you’d ever let anyone manage the first half of the day besides Liam.”

“If he zones out in the middle of one of my speeches again, I might consider it,” Louis growls. “Now, anything else?” Liam snatches a handful of courage and opens his mouth, but Louis’ barreling forward, practically already out of this seat. “No? Ok, good. Meeting adjourned.”

“Actually,” Liam’s adrenaline-controlled mind speaks for him, stopping Louis from walking away from the table that he’s now standing up in front of, “I have something to say.”

All eyes turn to him. Niall’s, in shock at the eagerness in Liam’s voice, Josie’s, in curiosity at what might be important enough to warrant said eagerness, and Louis’, which border on exasperated, probably for not simply allowing them to leave behind this meeting of necessary evil and go about their day. They all, for varying reasons, cause Liam’s blood pressure to rise, but unless he pulls a fantastic lie out of thin air, there’s no turning back now.

It isn’t until Louis’ raising his eyebrows and letting out an impatient “ _well?_ ” that Liam realizes time must be passing by a lot faster than it seems in his head.

He turns to face Josie after receiving an encouraging nudge to the ankle, taking from it what he can before looking back at Louis.

“I want to nominate someone for Customer of the Month,” he declares as smoothly as he can.

Like he’s the last to learn of this plan of Liam’s, Louis looks at the other two curtly, waiting as if they’ll divulge any details behind Liam’s motivation instead of just asking the man himself. When that isn’t the case, he sits down slowly, and crosses his arms smugly over his chest like he’s Liam’s older brother and the youngster just hinted at something Louis’ can use to pick on him for ages.

“You do?” He asks with a smirk so mischievous, the devil himself would be proud. “And who is it that you have in mind?”

Liam swallows another sip of coffee and tries not to pay any mind to how he feels as though Louis’ circling him like a vulture, ready to swoop down and pick at his carcass leisurely. “Zayn,” he replies meekly.

“Zayn?” Louis repeats, trying to place the name with a face.

“Isn’t that the guy who sits in the corner every day and draws?” Niall asks.

Liam doesn’t need to turn around to look where he’s pointing, there’s only one red armchair in the front corner of the shop, and only one customer who sits there day in and day out.

“He writes sometimes too,” Liam automatically adds.

Once the recognition hits, Louis’ smirk widens. “Your mysterious tattoo lad?”

“His name’s Zayn.”

It’s been the same back and forth between them ever since Liam committed the name to memory when it became clear Zayn’s routine of showing up at around ten every morning and staying past the end of Liam’s shift at three wasn’t going to change. Until the day Liam decided to “stop acting like a schoolgirl who’s too nervous to talk to her crush” and learn more about the man other than his name, order (a flat white), and that his job consisted of both writing and drawing, Louis vowed to keep referring to Zayn as “Liam’s mysterious tattoo lad”.

“You know we’ve already got someone for July,” Louis reminds him deridingly.

“Harry might as well be Customer of the _Year_ ,” Josie butts in, annoyed on Liam’s behalf. “He’s had his picture up for what? Ten months now?” The whole table looks over at the wall directly to the left of the front counter where there’s a framed photo of a curly haired man holding marigolds and a chalkboard of facts about him hanging underneath. “Let Liam have this,” Josie presses calmly. “Besides, the guy does come in every day. He’s the type of person who actually deserves to be recognized.”

Louis jumps into defensive mode immediately. “Harry deserves to be recognized.”

“All he does is provide us with centerpieces,” Niall says, flicking a petal that belongs to one of the pink roses situated in the middle of the table; every other in the cafe has an identical decoration, including the side table next to Zayn’s armchair.

“Need I remind you that that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about,” Louis chides as he pulls the glass vase away and out of Niall’s reach.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Josie says with emphasis, “you’d give him free drinks and god knows what else even if he wasn’t Customer of the Month. Liam never asks you for anything.”

Hearing people talk about him like he’s not within their breathing space becomes too unnerving for Liam to stay quiet any longer.

“The program was founded on the premonition that Harry would go out with you if you made some grand gesture,” he points out calmly, Niall laughing under his breath at Liam saying out loud what they all knew to be true, but haven’t ever had the guts to say aloud.

“Sod off,” Louis grumbles, brushing off his embarrassment quickly to go back to bullying Liam. “So what you’re saying is you want to take a page out of my book and try your hand at charming Mr. Mysterious?”

Sighing, Liam explores his options, despising how far Louis’ willing to string this out for pure enjoyment. But then again, what big brother wouldn’t?

“You should know how much it’s taken for me to even be able to start _this_ conversation,” Liam admits candidly; there’s no point hiding his true feelings in fear of being shamed. When you work in an environment like a coffee shop, you learn early on that in order for things to function, you need to accept that your co-workers are going to be your second family. “We can switch back to Harry for August,” he promises, even though he really shouldn’t have to beg to follow the rules of a rewards program based on rotated clientele. But this is Louis. The same person who Liam knows has a good heart and will let him do this, but not without first forcing him into a sweat.

They’re stuck in a stare down, neither willing to end the silence. So Niall does it for them, breaking out into such a sudden round of laughter that Liam flinches in his seat.

He looks behind him at where Niall had been staring prior to tilting his head back in hilarity to see Harry chasing after a colourful bouquet that’s tumbling into the street. His metal wagon full of similar arrangements and a select few potted plants has toppled over, no doubt from the sizable sidewalk crack that claims many clumsy souls who in turn give the worker bees at the front bar a reason to smile.

As Louis rushes to stand, he mutters over Niall’s signature roar of laughter, “Fucking hell, he’s gonna get himself killed over sunflowers.”

“So is that a yes?” Liam calls after him, looking to take advantage of his brief lapse in vigilance.

“Yes,” Louis answers distantly, jogging towards the front door, “do whatever you want.”

“Fuck,” Niall mutters disappointedly, “should’ve got that on camera.”

As they disperse from the table, Liam takes a deep breath. He wishes he could feel like he deserves it, like he’s accomplished something by merely voicing a desire of his, but he knows the praise would be premature. If he really does follow through with his plan (not that his co-workers would allow him to do otherwise now that they’re all aware of it), then Liam will pat himself on the back. Until then, he’s got work to do.

Technically, they still have twenty minutes until they officially open, but no one locks the door after Harry comes in post-blunder with a cheerful, “It’s Monday! New week, new flowers”, nor would Liam think about turning anyone away if they did walk in before seven.

He and Niall wipe down the burners where the house roast will brew in bulk every thirty minutes for those that are in a rush, don’t care about flavour, only caffeine, or simply can’t tell the difference between a cup of coffee that’s been brewed regularly and one that’s been made using the pour over method. In the beginning, he had been one of those, clueless to how aeration or specific filter materials could make a difference in a cup’s taste if the beans came from the same plant. Now, he could explain brewing processes to any person, young or old, just like he could describe flavours beyond the terms ‘dark’ and ‘light’.

“Can you taste the sweetness cut in at the end? When the acidity dies off?” He asks them all, Harry included, after he makes a sample brew of the Ethiopian roast for Josie to try, rather than just take notes on.

They all agree that they taste the hint of sugar, but none except Liam declare that they’d be able to stomach a full cup without any extra sweeteners or creamers. To each their own. Liam’s not one of those baristas that believes those who saturate their drinks with other flavours are tasteless. He just listens to which add-ins they’d modify it with and memorizes the orders so he’ll know how to make each of their morning cups come July 1st.

Like clockwork, the first few customers start to trickle in around 7:10. With Louis in the back doing the bookkeeping and Josie at the register that’s actually just an iPad stationed on a swiveling dock, Liam falls into a rhythm making drinks alongside Niall.

All of their focus is geared towards the machines or ingredients in front of them, yet somehow their bodies move around each other gracefully like they’re ballroom dance partners, mirroring one another at some points, and floating apart at others, all without saying a word. Liam takes one step to the left when Niall needs the espresso press, then glides back. Niall takes two steps to the right when Liam needs a scale to measure out the right amount of grounds for a pour over, then returns to his spot without missing a beat. And when either needs to grab a mug for a dine-in customer or paper cup for someone that’s in a rush to get to work, they alternate their side-stepping. It’s a perfectly orchestrated ballet, ready for any competition.

More often than not, Liam becomes entranced by it, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love the power that came with being manager. Namely the ability to jump into whatever role he pleased, so long as the paperwork for the morning got finished. Which means that whenever he’s not steeping tea or pulling double espressos, he’s in front of the register talking to customers new and old.

Like Mrs. Frenley, who drops by every other day for a latte after her pilates class and holds up the line, chatting Liam’s ear off about the gossip she’d heard on the way out of the studio as if any of it was of interest to a twenty-six year old male void of any flexibility whatsoever. Regardless, he enjoys her enthusiasm like he does Mr. Billot, a heavyset man in his early fifties who puts his faith in the specialty roast on a daily basis so long as it’s got a splash of half and half in it. Today, before he heads to the courthouse for a day of presidings, he makes Liam laugh by recounting a case from the day prior where “the idiot of all idiots” was put in front of him, claiming innocence on a vandalism charge, even though the nineteen year old signed his affidavit with the exact tagging from the graffiti he was cited for.

It’s the little slices of people’s lives that they choose to share with Liam that over the years has made him realize that they haven’t just become a part of his life, he’s also become a part of theirs. His love for his regulars and the atmosphere within the establishment, that’s what keeps him in his red apron five days a week. But by the time ten rolls around, he’s so far in his zone that he completely forgets all about the one regular whose life he hasn’t quite yet been made privy to yet.

“I’ll be right with you,” he says when he hears someone approach the register he’s stuck kneeling beneath, rearranging the cartons of coconut milk that’ve become increasingly popular once the word got out to the vegans that Early Bird now carried it.

As he stands, he wipes his hands on his apron, smile ready. When he sees who he’s made wait, it twitches, but he can’t make out if it’s in the upward direction (fueled by meeting eyes with his “schoolgirl crush”) or if it falters downward (also fueled by meeting eyes with his “schoolgirl crush”, just unexpectedly).

“Hi,” he breathes, gathering his composure and praying that it doesn’t show.

“Hey,” Zayn smiles back gently, his right hand gripping the black rucksack strap over his shoulder.

Despite it being the middle of summer, he’s wearing a beanie, and not as a fashion statement, but because he must be self-conscious of his hair today. Louis may think Liam doesn’t know anything about Zayn (not that Liam does himself any favours by acting a nervous wreck around him), but he’s wrong. There have been a select few instances where Liam’s curiosity has spiked so high that he’s acted on impulse and asked him why he wasn’t drawing that day (“sometimes I write, sometimes I draw. It depends how I’m feeling”). Or if he liked tea because they’d just got a brand new order of Jasmine and it’s best the closest to breaking the seal (“sure, I’ll try some, thanks”). Or where he got his new navy beanie, it looked nice (“thanks, but it’s just something cheap from Primark. I got a new haircut and the guy cut it a bit too short, so I needed a quick fix. I don’t normally like beanies, they make my head too hot.”). Those three sentences are still the most they’ve ever spoken in seven months, unless Liam’s to count their back and forth at the register about coffee, but he doesn’t. Mostly because after a week of coming in regularly, Zayn made it pretty clear that he only cared for flat whites; there was no need to chat about if he’d like to try a different milk creamer. Though once he found out Liam’s favouritism towards brewing methods other than the typical burner, he gave him the go ahead to choose whichever technique he wanted to make the cup.

“Flat white?” Liam asks, having to hold his finger back from hovering over the correct order on the iPad’s touch screen so as to not come across as overly eager.

Zayn’s “yeah” comes out in a breathy laugh, his hazel eyes sparkling with insolent humour as he does.

It isn’t common that Liam’s awarded such a sight, and if he is, it’s hardly ever aimed directly at him; on days when he’s exceptionally lucky, he’ll catch Zayn smiling at himself while typing away on his laptop. He’s taken aback by how much the smallest curve of the lips can add to a person’s allure, especially someone as intimidatingly handsome as Zayn. And from how Liam’s watched others take notice of Zayn for the past seven months - in line, from across the shop, waiting for his drink to be finished on days when he has to wait for someone who hasn’t gotten the memo to get out of his seat - he knows that’s not just his bias talking, the man’s definitely someone who turns heads. Since he’s never seen him outside of the shop, Liam can’t say for sure that he garners the same response from the general public, but he’d be willing to make a bet that people on the street give him second glances just as much as those that visit Early Bird. Hell, if this was a coffee shop in London, or some other big city, New York maybe, Liam wouldn’t doubt that he’d wind up with a healthy collection of business cards from agents coming in to get their fix.

Although, unless spoken to, Zayn doesn’t talk, and those times that he is addressed (mostly by Liam), he’s proven himself to be a man of few words, so perhaps he wouldn’t give any acting agents the time of day. Those in the fashion industry might get lucky, though. Liam’s limited knowledge on modeling tells him it’d be a good career matchup for someone like Zayn - quiet and willing to do what he needs in order to work on his writing and drawing once he’s made enough to last him a while; maybe a few high end shoots that would accent his tattoo’d skin and runways where he could pout for all of an hour in exchange for a few thousand pounds. Liam never lets his fantasies drift any farther than that, however. He’s always too worried about answering the single question such perpetual dreams illicit: What does it say about _his_ life that he has the capacity to make up such crazy scenarios about someone else’s?

After ringing Zayn up for one flat white, he lets him know he’ll bring his drink over to his chair when it’s ready, smiling when Zayn thanks him and hoping that the grin comes off a lot more confident than he’s actually feeling.

His insecurities are tap dancing around in his stomach, his chest, his head, everywhere. The familiarity behind pressing grinds and pulling the espresso lever helps ease some of the jitters, but right as he’s about to walk the cup over Niall mutters a warning of “don’t fall”, and his confidence is spilling all over the tiled floor. Much like Zayn’s order almost is the closer he gets to the corner spot.

When his presence is sensed, Zayn lifts his eyes up from where he’d been starting up the laptop resting on his thighs. “Thanks, again,” he says softly.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s no problem,” Liam rushes. “I’m just gonna set it….”

Without so much as a drop sliding down the side, the mug decorated in the british flag is left on the short side table to Zayn’s right.

Instead of retreating back to his post behind the counter, Liam stays where he is, awkwardly standing in front of the other as the cafe lives on around them. Several moments pass before Liam looks over his shoulder to make sure that Niall and Josie have things under control. When his eyes land back on Zayn, he’s met with a humoured smile, one so attractive that it would ordinarily leave Liam unnerved to the point of withdrawal, but he can’t fall victim to that. He’s made it too far this morning to become that person.

“So,” he starts, proud of the strong tone that he’s summoned, even if he’s only one word in, “it’s a writing day? No drawing?”

“Nope. I’ve got my sketchpad in here, but I don’t plan on using it.”

Liam’s drawn to the bag on the ground at Zayn’s feet that’s just been nudged, though he’s back to staring at Zayn’s content expression in less than a blink. “Cool,” he replies simply.

“Yeah.” When it’s clear Liam doesn’t plan on leaving, Zayn gently shuts his laptop closed. “Do you draw?”

Quickly ( _too_ quickly if Louis were here to judge), Liam shakes his head in denial. “No, no. I’m quite rubbish at things that involve hand eye coordination.”

“Well that’s a lie.” Only when Liam stares back in confusion does Zayn elaborate. “You make the best coffee in town.”

“Really?” At the sight of Zayn’s nod, Liam’s anxious smile widens. “That’s nice of you to say, thank you. Although, I’m sure it helps that the roasts we carry aren’t boring.”

Zayn shifts in his seat, straightening his posture. “I suppose.”

“Speaking of which,” Liam says enthusiastically, grateful to have been given such a perfect segue, “for July, we’re going to be carrying a new Ethiopian blend. I tried some earlier, it’s great. Do you like blueberries? It’s got hints of them in there.”

Back comes a look of serenity to Zayn’s face. “I’m sure I’ll like it if you say it’s good.”

The momentum’s there for Liam to use, he can feel it like he’s sure Zayn can, but it’s difficult to choose a place to grip; he’d rather it snowball just a little further. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel like he’s potentially about to make the worst decision of his life.

“You know,” he begins, voice considerably more shaky than moments prior, “we change Customer of the Month when we put out a new specialty roast. Or maybe you don’t know,” he realizes stupidly. “There’s a-”

“Liam.”

It’s one of the only times he’s ever heard Zayn say his name and despite Liam’s heart getting ready to plunge out of his chest, he somehow manages not to let the moment’s auspiciousness be taken from him.

“I come in every day,” Zayn continues, “I’ve seen Harry’s picture and seven months worth of bullet point facts on him.”

Liam’s chuckles blend in with the other morning chatter, “Right, of course. The owner, Louis, he’s a bit partial to him. But, uh, next month’s going to see someone different.”

“They looked cordial yesterday.” For a second time, Liam’s apparent inability to keep up spurs Zayn forward. “If they aren’t fighting, I don’t see why Harry wouldn’t get his normal plaque.”

Liam would hardly call a children’s blackboard from Poundland a plaque, but sure. “I told him it was time for a change.”

Like he knows Liam well enough to be proud of him for standing for something he believes in, Zayn raises his eyebrows, impressed. “So who’s the lucky patron?”

“You.”

“Me?” Zayn checks, stunned by the reveal. “Why’d he pick me?”

“Actually, he didn’t. I did.”

Time practically stands still as Liam’s nerves ramp up to an alltime high, his confession sounding more and more lethal the longer it hangs in the air without any sort of response.

Finally, Zayn gives him a small “oh” to work with, though it doesn’t do much other than confirm he’s heard Liam speak point blank. “In that case, why’d _you_ pick me?”

“Because I’m pretty sure the title’s meant to be given to a loyal customer,” he replies, unwilling to admit the real reason of needing an excuse to talk to the man, “not whoever the owner favours.”

Zayn nods, a tiny smile finding its way to his lips. But he stays quiet, as does Liam, waiting on pins and needles to see if something else will come from Zayn’s silent rumination. And he’s in luck.

“Well, thank you, for noticing me,” Zayn offers politely. “I’m not the loudest of customers. That’s the one woman who somehow always turns the calls for her nutrition business into something religious. You know, the one who wears the really high ponytail and zip-up track top?”

Liam doesn’t need the image, he knows the woman perfectly well without it. He’s had to tell her on multiple occasions to please quiet down when it’s clear she doesn’t realize how loud she’s being. It’s how he picked up her name too. “Jenny,” Liam provides lightheartedly. “You two are close to polar opposites.”

“How do you know I’m not a wired airhead outside of this chair?”

As Zayn stares at him in challenge, Liam can’t help but feel pleased that his setup’s going to plan. “Are you?”

Straight away the man in the chair loosens up even further, looking as if he’s deciding on whether or not it’s a smart idea to keep up with his game or give in before it gets messy. “I really want to say yes,” he discloses apprehensively.

“You can,” Liam assures him, “no one’s stopping you.”

But Zayn’s done. He licks his lips mischievously and moves on to a safer topic. “So I suppose you’re going to need to take my picture…”

“And ask you a few questions to fill in the board.” Hearing that his suspicions are correct, Zayn readjusts his beanie, and as wrong as it may be, Liam’s thankful for the insight into the other’s self-consciousness. It means he gets to stretch out this small window of euphoria for as long as possible. “But we can do that tomorrow,” he proposes. “It’s only Monday. It doesn’t have to go up until Thursday.”

“What should I wear? Something smart?”

The smirk Zayn’s wearing tells him that he’s kidding, as does his outfit of ripped jeans and a t-shirt of a band Liam’s never heard of, also ripped down the right sleeve. It’s hard to imagine him in anything professional.

“I like you as you are,” Liam answers honestly, elated to see that something in Zayn reacts well to the words.

“Oversized tee it is.”

“Perfect.”

Liam rocks back on his heels, not knowing how else to continue the conversation without making a fool of himself more than his goofy smile was probably already doing a good job of. “I’ll let you get back to work then. If you need anything, let me know. Like a refill, or cookie. I think we have extras I could give you that are a little crisp around the edges, or-” Hearing how desperate he sounds, Liam pulls his brakes. “Just let me know.”

Right out of Liam’s alternate universe where Zayn’s accepted a job as a model, the male purses his lips and gazes at Liam as though he’s mastered smiling with his eyes. “I will,” he promises.

And with that, Liam does his best to hide the deep breath he needs to take by turning around sharply. Immediately, he spots all three of his coworkers staring at him with indulgent expressions.

“Is he still breathing?”

Louis’ hand gets batted down on its way to check Liam’s pulse when the lad makes it behind the counter, but he’s not terribly bothered, Niall’s head tilting back in deafening laughter is a big enough win for him to feel satisfied.

At the moment, Liam can’t bear to look where there’s a possibility Zayn’s watching the dysfunctional family behaviour, so he waits until a significant amount of time’s gone by when he knows it’s safe and he won’t be caught.

Except his timing’s off, and when he does brave a glance, Zayn’s already got his eyes on him, as calm as always.

**Chapter 2**

Spritz, spritz, spritz.

Spicy lavender fills Liam’s compact bathroom, overpowering the scent of the winterfresh toothpaste - another staple in his life that hasn’t seen change in over a decade. And at this rate, most likely never would. It’s why yesterday morning’s success can feel so monumental, like a small cog that’s been thrown in his unyielding wheel of life.

So maybe he spent an embarrassing amount of time last night crafting original questions to ask Zayn. It’s that sort of strategic thinking that’s going to ensure the time Liam’s awarded of Zayn’s isn’t spent going down the same list of hollow questions he knows Louis poached offline for Harry’s monthly feature. Liam needs to know more about Zayn other than the fact that he’s got an intolerance for sweeteners, real and artificial. Or that he naps rather than sleeps through the night. A detail he learned after apologizing profusely for waking Zayn up from one of these brief naps with his sweeping, and joking that he must’ve partied pretty hard the night before if he couldn’t stay awake out in public.

On the bus ride into town, right as the dark skinned woman who does her shopping as soon as the co-op opens its doors on Tuesday mornings boards, Liam takes out his final list of questions to scan over. Ten may be pushing it, there’s definitely only room for five on the blackboard, but he’s selfish. And if Zayn asks, he’ll claim he wants to be a good employee, one who’s thorough. Something bogus like that.

When he gets to the cafe and the lights have been awoken, the calm before the storm settles in. For all of five minutes.

“Liam’s got a big day today!”

Niall’s booming voice causes Liam to look up from where he was counting paper cups, a motion he instantly regrets as soon as he sees a huge camera lens pointed straight at him.

“Oh hell no,” he grumbles, raising his hand up to shield his face, “this is not about to become a trending topic.” Niall’s comment the afternoon before about documenting Liam’s journey of blossoming love was only supposed to be a bad joke, he wasn’t meant to take Liam’s eye roll as a sign of approval.

“Liam’s just a bit nervous,” Niall tells the invisible audience. “You know how it goes when you’re about to ask out the person you’re interested in.” One more step and Liam reaches out to snatch the camera from out of the other’s hands, but Niall jerks back, laughing like a mad man, just in time to spare his equipment. “It’s all in good fun, you know that Payno.”

“Until it gains traction, and then it’s not.”

Liam speaks from experience. He’d just about lost it when Niall and his camera’s innocent check-in’s on Liam’s 10k training transformed into a full-fledged series once viewers took a liking to him.

Thankfully, the earnestness behind Liam’s remark does it’s job in holding off the paparazzi for the rest of the morning and allows him the opportunity to enjoy the rhythm of the early morning rush. So much so, that he almost misses the exchange to his right.

“Give it a couple days and you won’t be needing this anymore.”

  
“No?”

Liam’s hands fumble at the sound of Zayn’s voice.

“Liam didn’t tell you? Customer of the Month gets free drinks.”

In Josie’s hand is Zayn’s loyalty punch card, the same one that rewards patrons with a free drink after purchasing ten and only comes out when Zayn’s not too lazy to sling his backpack around and pull it out of its front pocket.

The male meets eyes with Liam, smiling slowly. “No, he didn’t tell me.”

It’s so firm, Zayn’s stare. Liam’s only able to hold it for a few seconds before he gets too flustered and returns to his job at hand, throwing out soiled paper filters. Thank god Louis sticks to afternoons as his time to show face on days other than Mondays, Liam’s not in the mood to handle more ridicule than he’s already placed on himself for lacking the capacity to find Zayn’s level of confidence when he needs it.

“Hey,” Josie says while taking Zayn’s credit card, “at least you order something reasonable. In the winter, it’s a chai tea latte with nutmeg dashed on top for Harry. You don’t need to do our books to know he’s single-handedly cost us hundreds.”

A flat white joins the list of drinks that need to be made on the electronic POS system situated in between Liam and Niall, but the former swipes it off the screen; he’s already working on it.

Out of the corner of his eye he can make out Zayn hovering in the pickup area, watching him. Like most, he stays quiet, adding to the fishbowl effect that Liam loathes. He’s standing where he is for a reason, people needn’t treat him like an act on display open for critiques. Their judgemental stares daring him to do something to their drink that they don’t approve of won’t get them anywhere. As a rule, he ignores those types, but with Zayn, he uses it as an excuse to talk to him. Afterall, it’s always easier to speak to someone (especially an important someone) when you’re preoccupied doing something else.

“I was going to let you in on the free drink thing,” Liam says above the blender Niall’s started.

“If you say so.”

He glances up from where he’s steaming milk, “I was.”

“Ok,” Zayn replies coolly and without contest, “I believe you.”

Niall cuts through their conversation, calling out for the owner of the medium Americano.

“You beat the Beatrix Potter crew today,” Liam points out, causing Zayn to peer over his shoulder at the empty middle table where a group of senior women normally sit on Tuesday’s around ten. It took Liam’s curiosity an entire month to get to the point where he needed to ask why the women showed up with matching bunny tote bags if they never took anything out of them during their hour visit together. Evidently they’re all widows. The canvas bags are souvenirs from a trip they all took to the famous author’s residence in the Lake District. Now, they carry around the totes as a token of their friendship. Even to this day, Liam’s not sure he’s ever heard anything quite so heartbreaking and redeeming-ly sweet at the same time.

“Huh,” Zayn says as he checks the time on his phone. “I guess I’m early.”

He’s also neatly groomed. Rather than letting it grow to its liking, his beard’s cleaned up, and even with a glass barrier and almost two meters between them, Liam can still smell his fresh cologne. Even his t-shirt and jeans are pristine, neither ripped nor stained like they almost always are with a random splash of colour. It’s dangerous for Liam to let himself think that he’s to blame for the way the front of Zayn’s hair is perfectly quaffed, but the past twenty-four hours has been such a euphoric ride that he does anyway.

“Once the line dies down, I’ll come over and chat your ear off,” he vows, handing Zayn a mug purchased from an owl sanctuary and nodding in acknowledgment when he’s being thanked.

“Take your time,” Zayn reassures him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

In the middle of watching the man walk away, Liam feels a knock to his spine, turning and seeing Niall, half a step off in their practiced dance, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Without any flashes going off, the only fair response Liam can give him is a brotherly elbow back.

True to his word, Liam finds his way over to Zayn’s corner no more than fifteen minutes later, clipboard and pen in hand. The male’s got his laptop out again, whatever’s on it stealing his full attention until he notices Liam grabbing a chair from the nearest table and setting it in front of him.

“Can I join you?”

“Always,” he replies swiftly, closing his laptop and letting it sink into the armchair’s cushion at his side.

It’s such an immediate response that Liam needs to be careful in not allowing the swoop in his stomach to overtake his confidence. Best to mitigate the daunting attention with candor. “What are you working on?”

Zayn’s eyes flicker down to the pen that Liam’s twirling. “A new storyline - a mystery.”

At once, the fidgeting stops, Liam ready to jot down what’s to come from his next remark. “You know, I’ve never formally asked you what it is you do.”

“I create graphic novels.”

Liam can feel his eyes widen in amazement. “Like comics?”

“Like graphic novels.” In an instant, Liam’s eyes lose their enthusiasm; he hadn’t expected such a blunt, harsh response. “A comic is a type, but graphic novels are so much more than just strips of superheroes.”

Admittedly, Liam doesn’t know much about the world of books, but he prepared for this, skimming down his list of questions to get to one in particular. “What’s your favourite thing about your career?”

As Zayn takes his time mulling over his answer, Liam waits with his pen at the ready.

Time passes, and with it, Liam’s comfort. He’s unaccustomed to being left alone this long in a conversation. Without any back and forth, his body feels like squirming.

“I’d say the freedom,” Zayn eventually decides on. “I get to write whatever story comes to my head, and draw it in whichever style I feel is conducive to the genre. Plus, I make my own hours. As long as it’s finished by the publisher’s deadline, then it doesn’t matter how or where I divvy them up.”

Besides being grateful for the alleviation of pressure, Liam can feel himself smile at the obvious reference to where they’re sitting. How Zayn’s made it his office, free of any unsightly desk dividers or dress code and higher ups breathing down your neck from afar.

He’s supposed to stick to his script to avoid exposing this discussion for what it really is, but Liam can’t help himself when he takes a small detour and asks, “How many have you written?”

“This’ll be number nine.”

Maybe it’s because he knows nothing about writing, but it seems insane that a person as young as Zayn could create that many books. Which is why the chuckle he’s given to his follow up question asking Zayn for his age doesn’t seem warranted; he can’t be that much older than Liam. And at twenty-seven, he’s not.

The number gets written next to the other easy facts Liam had already filled in himself. Name: Zayn. Drink of choice: flat white. He’s about to ask for his hometown when the tables are turned and he’s asked for _his_ age.

“I’m twenty-six. But my birthday’s at the end of August, so I’m almost twenty-seven.” Liam quirks his brow at the sly smile that’s sent his way. “What?”

“Nothing,” Zayn says with an amused shake of the head, “It’s just, for someone that old, you sound like a kid arguing your age in months.”

Blood flows to Liam’s cheeks, his eyes darting back down to his clipboard in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. “Did you grow up around here?”

“No, Bradford.” Liam’s pen hardly finishes the ‘a’ before Zayn adds, “Did you?”

Upon finishing the city name, Liam lifts his head in time to watch Zayn sip from his drink slowly, easily taking its heat. Whatever that is after fifteen minutes of being poured.

“I did,” he answers. “Wolverhampton’s my past, present, and future, most likely.”

In lieu of a worded response, Zayn simply takes another sip of his coffee. It’s all Liam can do but interpret it as a sign his reply was adequate and look for another question. “What do you do when you’re not working?”

“Nap.”

“Sometimes you do that even when you _are_ working,” Liam teases, smiling widely when his joke conjures up the same for Zayn.

“I’m not usually a corny person, but I’d say I’m definitely one of those who feels lucky to get paid to do what they love. For me, it’s not work. I’ve always got a sketchbook on hand in case something comes to my mind wherever I am.”

Looking to where Zayn’s backpack is, on the ground, partially open, Liam decides to take a leap of faith. “Can I see something?”

Silently, Zayn sets his coffee on the side table and pulls a worn, hardback sketchbook from his bag. He tugs at the elastic band that’s holding the black notepad shut, before handing it over to Liam without so much as a word.

All the younger man can do is stare at the weathered cover, too shocked that he’s just been given the freewill to flip through any and all pages to open it up right away. At the very most he expected to be shown a specific page; this is undeserving privilege.

When he finally does open it, he starts on the first page.

The entire thing’s been filled to the brim, in its center, a massive octopus. Each of its tentacles are exaggeratingly wrapped around various bushes of kelp and coral. The underwater scene may have been drawn in the style of a doodle, like a subconscious flow of Zayn’s imagination rather than a realistic portrayal of an octopus’ antics, but the colours are the opposite. They’re so vibrant and were blended together so seamlessly that they look like velvet. Not that Liam would ever dare check with his bare fingers.

The next page revolves around a bus stop. Where there’s usually timings and routes mapped out on the bench’s plastic backing is a swirling portal. It’s black and white, like the rest of the sketch, and drawn with such precision that it really does look like it could swallow anything that gets too close.

For his next preview into Zayn’s talent, he turns to a random page, finding it chock full of eyeballs - different sizes, different colour irises. Even though they’re not attached to any faces, he can envision the personalities of each invisible person they belong to. Like the pair in the bottom right corner that, without any tears, still manages to evoke a sense of raw sadness. Or the single eye next to it that does the opposite - looks like its owner’s just been given the greatest news of their life. There’s even a pair that aren’t human at all, but look as though they could belong to an animated cat or dog.

“What do _you_ do when you’re not working?”

Liam’s far too mesmerized by what’s in front of him to look up and address Zayn decently. “Not much,” he says absentmindedly. “Some days I run or go to the gym, but other than that I just chill at home. Maybe hang out with friends if they’re not working.”

On the next page lives a drawing of Ren & Stimpy, two cartoon characters that Liam remembers watching devoutly as a kid. “You watched them too?” He asks excitedly, rotating the book for Zayn to see what he’s referring to.

“All I did when I was younger was watch cartoons.”

“They look identical to how they do on the screen,” Liam thinks out loud. “I wouldn’t be able to tell if you drew them or if the animator did.”

“Thanks.”

Too busy tilting the page in the light shining through the front window, Liam doesn’t notice the long pause Zayn takes prior to saying, “I got into drawing from cartoons.” But he does want to hear more about the origins of Zayn’s talent, so he stops with his actions and faces forward once more to send the message.

“Their colouring and theatrics always stuck with me after my mum peeled me away from the screen,” Zayn elaborates, “so I started off by copying what I saw until I got the basics down. It all just sort of went from there.” He stops, as if to organize his thoughts before sharing them. “Graphic novels are just elongated episodes of a cartoon, or the print version of an animated film.” His brow furrows during another brief pause. “Although, some creators do draw hyper-realistic stuff, but those aren’t common.”

Cautiously, because he’s worried about how this will sound to someone like Zayn, Liam says, “Outside of comics, I’ve never read a graphic novel before.”

But Zayn’s not bothered at all, he’s intrigued by the admission. “No? You should. They’re a lot easier to digest than most novels if you’re not a reader. I could recommend you some adventure series if you like comics.”

“Have you written any?”

Eyes roll down to the clipboard that’s been reshuffled to be on top of Zayn’s sketchbook, and when Liam follows them, he sees why they’re shining amusedly: he’s gripping his pen in zeal, ready to scribble whatever spills from Zayn’s lips as if his words are holy. At the sight, Liam loosens up. “I’m not going to put the titles on the board or anything, I swear. Not unless you want me to.”

“What other questions do you have?” Zayn counters, taking the sketchbook that’s being handed back to him and tucking it away safely in the confines of his backpack.

“What’s your biggest pet peeve?”

“When people refer to graphic novels as comics.” At the sight of the other going beet red, Zayn smirks, “That was supposed to be a joke. Apparently my routine needs work.” Liam goes to open his mouth and fight him, say how _he’s_ the dumb one for not being able to pick up on it, but Zayn’s speaking again. “The comic thing does bother me, but what I hate even more is when people compliment my work by insulting themselves. I find it really uncomfortable when someone says, ‘you’re amazingly talented. I could never draw anything close to that. I can barely draw a stick figure’.”

A note gets made on Liam’s paper, as well as in his mind. “Three words to describe you.”

“Hold up,” Zayn says abruptly. “I didn’t get a pet peeve of yours.”

Looking between the man’s hazel eyes, Liam tries to see what he’s getting at. “I thought of all of these for you, I wasn’t planning on-“

“If you get to learn all these things about me, then it’s only fair that I get to do the same. Don’t you think?”

It’s a question, but Zayn’s staring at him like he doesn’t have the option to say no. So he doesn’t.

“Fine,” Liam relents, grateful that he doesn’t need to look any further back than that very morning to find a moment of frustration to use as an example. “Know-it-alls really get under my skin. This woman came in earlier, first-timer, and ordered a matcha latte. I hadn’t even finished steaming the milk before I could hear her warning me that _she’ll_ tell me when to stop pouring because she likes the ratio to be a certain way.” He can tell that Zayn’s getting a kick out seeing this critical side of him by the way the edges of his lips inch up higher the more he complains. “I understand that a lot of people buy coffee for convenience, but come on, if you’ve chosen to pay me, then you should at least have a little faith that I know what I’m doing.”

“Did you say something to her?”

“No, I didn’t think it was worth the hassle, so I just kept my mouth shut. She’s lucky. If it were either of those two,” Liam points to Josie and Niall behind him without taking his eyes off Zayn, “she would’ve gotten an earful.”

“You were right to think that she would’ve been a waste of your breath. I wouldn’t dare let anyone make me a cup other than you.” The owl mug sitting on the side table gets picked up again and brought to Zayn’s lips once more. “Not even myself,” he says with so much flirtatiousness that Liam can’t find it in himself to believe that this isn’t one of those alternate universes that he’s created.

He watches as Zayn takes a long drink, oozing charm that he’ll never be able to match, and clenches his jaw in the hopes that it’ll help ground him. “So,” he starts, trying to scrounge up what’s left of his confidence, “what are those three words?”

“Can I use creative?” Zayn asks after swallowing his coffee and overlooking Liam’s blush. “It’s a bit obvious with my job.”

“Of course you can.”

“Independent’s sort of the same.” As he thinks of a better adjective, Zayn taps his finger against the mug that’s still in his hand. “I’d say I’m quite tenacious,” he states proudly. “And, let’s see, what’s another good one?”

Liam knows it’s rhetorical, but he’s come up with a few of his own answers that he could offer up. Handsome, intelligent, reserved, self-disciplined.

“Open minded,” Zayn adds. “I’m very open minded.”

The trait gets written down right at the bottom of Liam’s personal list as he mutters a quiet, “me too.”

“Good to know, but I’m not counting that as one of your three.”

The words ‘impetulant’ and ‘persistent’ deserve to be written down under open minded.

In his stiff chair, Liam sits back, forced into self-reflection. Technically, there’s nothing that’s keeping him there. He was the one who started this, and as an adult, he also has the power to end it. Yet he doesn’t. Instead, he finds himself thinking back to when he was in a classroom as a child and similar questions were asked of him, not because anyone cared about what he had to say, but because they were vague enough ice breakers that primary school children could answer them with a limited vocabulary. But now he felt the heat of the spotlight that’s been turned on; it burns brighter with only one person in the audience.

Other than the overly simplistic adjectives that he might’ve used back in primary school like nice or friendly, Liam’s drawing a blank on what to respond with. He’s both - nice and friendly - but those aren’t going to cut it for the man staring back at him expectantly.

He’s helpful, always going beyond his real role as a manager any time the cafe and its visitors need him, which in turn has led him to become incredibly organized, but those are two things that spoke to his work ethic more than his personality.

Desperate for inspiration, he glances down at Zayn’s short list. Creative? No. Independent? In that he provides for himself, but he’s not blinded to his reliance on the cafe’s social atmosphere to keep him energized; he’d collapse from boredom without its constant stimulation, so he’s not independent in his daily operations either. He’s certainly tenacious, but if it’s unclear to him why or what goal he’s set for himself that’s worth being motivated towards, then he definitely can’t use that as a solid character trait. Plus, there’s no room for copying.

And he’s back to where he started.

Patient should be added to Zayn’s list. He’s got zero irritation in his eyes when Liam looks back at him, no silent glare that screams ‘this really isn’t that hard, why is it taking you so long?’. Rather, they’re humming some sweet, mundane melody to fill the gap.

“I’m sorry, I can’t come up with anything,” Liam sighs. “I’m too boring.” The word’s out for no more than a second when it clicks. “There, my first is boring.” From there he can feel a synonymous path branch out. “Average.” Zayn looks like he wants to make a comment, but Liam’s talking over him, “And level-headed. That’s three.”

There’s no reply coming from the older man, he’s too busy being pensive after hearing the final descriptor. But Liam’s not worried. It’s not a silence that looks like it will lead to an angry response. Not like the silence that suffocated his childhood living room when he was made to watch his dad stew for what seemed like hours after his eleven year old self had accidentally kicked a football through their front window. Even to this day, there are still rare instances when Liam screws something up that he can hear the calm, icy disapproval of his father saying “go get me the dustpan” as he kneeled to pick up the larger shards of glass.

“I’ll accept the last, but not the others.”

Like he’d predicted, Zayn speaks with complete fairness. And for a moment, Liam wonders if sympathy might be the reason why. He wouldn’t blame him, the list he’d given, albeit true, was pretty feeble. Still, that doesn’t erase the jolt of panic that runs down his body when he realizes he’s most likely not going to be allowed to leave until he receives approval for two more adjectives. With Zayn’s stamina, that could take all day.

“Do you really think you’re boring?”

The man’s question throws Liam for a loop, putting a momentary stop to his worrying. “I do.”

“Are you okay with that?” Zayn asks, not at all bothered by how he’s surprised Liam yet again with such an unorthodox reply that reads as though he’s genuinely curious, not trying to demean Liam’s self-beliefs. “Personally, I doubt you are. I doubt anyone’s 100% boring, but suppose they are. And suppose you’re one of them. Is that cool with you or do you want to change?”

“I don’t know,” Liam replies, feeling the clouds of pressure that have settled around him growing denser. “I’m not- I mean, I don’t dislike who I am, it’s just, that’s not much.” He shrugs, “I’m average, like I said. Nothing special.”

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think that at the end of next month, when you’re erasing my answers and having to rewrite Harry’s, we should revisit yours. By then, you should be able to come up with three proper words to describe yourself that are actually useful for someone to get to know you.”

It takes everything in Liam to hold back the ‘and if I don’t?’ that’s on the tip of his tongue, but he manages.

“I can do that,” he agrees, smiling like Zayn now is and focusing on the promise that they’ll be talking like this again in a month's time, that this won’t just end here with an interview that he’s completely lost the upper hand on. In fact, Liam forgoes the rest of his questions and skips straight to the picture portion of the bestowal, he’d rather not dig himself into this hole any further. And besides, he doesn’t want to miss out on capturing the way Zayn’s staring back at him, so peaceful, his mug gripped by both hands. But he does anyway by telling Zayn to stay put, he’s just going to go get Niall’s camera.

“What’s wrong?” He asks when the perfect portrait is stained by a crease in Zayn’s brow.

“I was under the impression that you were just going to snap a shot of me on your phone,” Zayn says shyly. “I didn’t realize a thousand pound camera was going to be involved.”

“Unlike you, I’m not at all creative, and I know from experience helping him film things that money really can buy quality. No matter how shit you are at angles or lighting.” Given how much time Zayn spends at Early Bird, Liam doesn’t bother to explain how professional Niall’s camera is, he’s undoubtedly seen it make an appearance whenever they’re slow. So long as he’s not inappropriate, Niall’s got Louis’ stamp of approval. Which, in his exact words sounds like: “customers can think what they fucking want, I don’t care.” But based off of his reaction, Zayn actually might. “Would it bother you if I used it?”

The older male looks to where Harry’s picture is. “With a frame that size, I don’t think people will be able to tell the difference in resolution.” Eyes back on Liam, he runs a hand over his neatly trimmed beard, “It’s been a while since anyone’s taken my picture, so I want it to look relatively alright.”

_You look amazing even in the pale of winter when you’ve just come in and your cheeks are white from the temperature and wet from the melting snowflakes._

“Which is why I should get the good camera,” Liam says instead. “It’ll fill in my skill gap.”

“You’d be surprised what the tiny cameras on phones can do these days. Just try it.”

Begrudgingly, Liam takes out his phone, tapping on the screen several times when it’s in camera mode to get the auto focus to cooperate and the brightness to shift accordingly. When it’s to his liking, he captures the shot: Zayn, in his corner seat, mug level with his pecs, a soft smile on his lips.

“Let me see,” he demands hurriedly, looking it over and nodding. “For the wall, it’s not bad. You’ve got light from both windows on your side, but I could teach you a little bit about perspective if you want. Are you free after work?”

It’s like he missed Liam’s whole answer about not having any substantial hobbies outside of these four walls.

“Yeah,” Liam breathes, taking back his phone.

“I’ll cut my day here early and leave with you at three then.”

Another “yeah” comes out of Liam in a bit of a stupor, but he’s quick to correct himself. “Ok,” he nods strongly, “I’m looking forward to it.”

Understatement of the century.

For the remaining four hours of his shift, Liam can’t think straight. His eyes flit over to Zayn more often than usual, wondering if all artists are good at multiple mediums, or if Zayn’s just exceptionally talented in knowing about photography on top of drawing. It doesn’t seem all that far fetched of a concept, but he makes sure to ask him anyway when they’re walking out of the cafe together later in the day.

“So, are you secretly a world renown photographer too?”

“No,” Zayn chuckles, leading the way south down the sidewalk.

Turning his head to steal a glance at Zayn’s smile causes Liam to have to squint from the sun’s rays. It’s uncomfortable, but at least it’s not as bad as when he walks outside for the first time after a shift and becomes practically blinded. All the sleek, industrial countertops and fixtures that Louis had included in the cafe’s one and only renovation, had resulted in lots of black. And while it looked great and appealed to the younger clientele that Louis had been gunning after, it also made walking into sunny weather feel like laser eye surgery.

As they come to a stop at one of the city’s main intersections, Liam realizes that even though he feels like a young, annoying child having to chase Zayn with questions, it looks like it might be the only way to keep their conversation from falling off.

“You just know a few things about it…” He edges out.

“From when I was younger.”

“During university?”

“No, much younger. Eleven or twelve. I didn’t go to university.”

It’s so rare nowadays to hear of someone who didn’t attend a higher institution, that Liam surprises himself in how relieved he feels that he and Zayn are on some sort of even playing field, even if it’s obvious Zayn’s plenty more accomplished than he is. It’s a feeling that gives way to an odd surge of pride, and because of that, Liam finds himself saying “neither did I” in a cheerful tone that’s usually reserved for something much more praiseworthy.

In his pocket, a vibrating frenzy commences. Without a green light to deem the crosswalk safe, Liam checks to see what all the fuss is about. Him, apparently. As soon as Louis came in and noticed Liam’s mysterious tattoo lad wasn’t in his corner, he dropped a text to the morning crew group chat (Liam didn’t interacted with the afternoon or weekend staff enough to feel comfortable talking to them outside of the cafe, much less on such a instantaneous basis) to see what was up. An innocent enough ask, but one emoji of two men holding hands sent by Niall and all hell broke loose.

They can have their fun coming up with assumptions, he’ll deal with it all tomorrow.

“Where are we going?” He asks, hopping off the sidewalk to catch up with Zayn, who’s gotten a few paces ahead of him.

“The electronics shop on Berde. I need a new pen for my tablet.”

Liam’s quick to put in his two cents on what he thinks of the new iPad, but Zayn’s squelching his enthusiasm when he clarifies that by tablet, he meant a pen tablet - a drawing board that’s made for computer generated art, not an iPad. This time around Liam’s embarrassment maxes out at mild, mostly because Zayn knows that he hasn’t a clue about anything art related. That, and he’s not afraid to use his ignorance as a way to get Zayn to open up more about his work, asking things like “what’s the difference between an art app on an iPad and a full-on pen tablet?” or “how often do you need to buy the pens for them?” (not often, they’re rechargeable, Zayn just always forgets to plug them in), and “why not use a regular pen and paper?”.

“It’s all about the feeling you want to portray,” Zayn says as they walk around the shop, taking their time perusing the aisles. “Every artist’s different, but that’s what I think.” He stops to pull a bright green USB cord off a rack. “It’s like I was saying with photography, perspective’s key, not the fanciness of it.”

At the mention of photography, Liam expects to be dragged over to where the cameras are, but they stay standing in their spot, Zayn’s eyes scanning the room. He does so quietly, and while Liam’s just as patient as him, he wonders if he’s going to need to supply another dialogue prompt for them, but he’s pleasantly surprised when Zayn continues to speak.

“If I want to create a dystopian world, then maybe I should do it digitally, since it’ll help give off the luster of that timeline. But if I had an idea for a plot that took place in the medieval ages, then the roughness of the pencils or thin pen marks might be better suited. Although, some people might say that the only difference between the two mediums is price and convenience; if you’re a good artist, then you should be able to say what you need no matter the tools you use.”

He starts to walk over towards the shop’s back wall where flat screen tvs are on display. Besides a single sales associate, the aisle’s empty. He begins to encroach in their space as soon as he sees the two men, but Zayn tells him they’re fine on their own and goes back to eyeing the mounted tvs carefully.

Finally, he turns to Liam, who’s been watching him in curious fascination. “What do you see?”

Zayn may not seem the type to laugh at him for giving a wrong answer, but Liam knows this is a test, and tests only have one right answer, so as he searches their surroundings for clues, he keeps his eyes sharp; saying “a bunch of tellys” isn’t going to cut it. When nothing abnormal stands out, it dawns on him that the question could very well be a trick one.

“You,” he replies, completely unphased by Zayn’s laughter that has every chance of being _at_ him as much as it could be _with_ him, strictly because he’s starting to love the sound.

“Ok,” Zayn says quietly, “what else?”

Liam decides to pick something quickly so he doesn’t waste any more time trying to come up with an answer he knows won’t be satisfactory anyhow. “The ocean?”

Zayn looks to the screens where an advert’s calling for the viewer to recycle so the poor sea turtles of the world can stop getting their necks stuck in plastic soda rings. “True,” he replies, turning back and instructing the other to close his eyes.

Liam does as he’s told, even though he really shouldn’t be that eager or accepting with a virtual stranger. After hearing a couple of squeaks he’s being given the go ahead to “open”.

In front of his face is a small phone screen, Zayn’s phone screen he realizes once his eyes readjust. It’s showing a still image, one of black, sharp edges overlapping each other like the scales of a fish that’s taken on the colour of the ocean bottom they lurk around.

“It’s the tvs.”

Liam looks away from the phone to see that several of the tvs have been turned out from the wall.

“That’s insane,” he whispers, observing as Zayn crouches down and takes another photo.

“There’s inspiration in everything.” This new photo is of the aisle from an ant’s point of view. “As a kid, any time I saw an open space or background that I wanted to play around with on paper and make a setting of my own, I’d take a picture of it.”

“That’s what got you into photography?”

Zayn hums in reply, “Exaggerating what’s around you is World Building 101.”

Cartoons come back to Liam’s mind. How they exaggerate injuries, and the explosions that are more comical than dangerous because of their size and remnants.

“It’s kind of like playing pretend as a kid,” he extends. “Using your environment to make what you want out of it.”

“Yeah,” Zayn grins, “sorta.”

“I’ve got two older sisters, but there’s a bit of a gap between us, so I would play alone a lot as a kid. For a while, I went through a phase where I had the most vivid dreams, and every morning when I’d wake, I’d try and reenact them in the back garden.” Liam puts a stop to his reminiscing to look behind the closest tv. “Isn’t it mad how far technology’s advanced just since we’ve been alive? Did you guys have one of those old box tvs that had buttons on the front and when you lost the remote, you’d have to crawl up and change the program that way?”

A small laugh comes from behind him. “Yeah, we did.”

“Now, tvs are so light that you can hang them on your wall and move them around. I can’t even imagine what they’ll be like in the future.”

“Try.”

Liam frowns, taking his head out from behind the flat screen. “What?”

“Try and imagine what futuristic tvs will look like,” Zayn reiterates.

An Eastenders rerun is now playing on each tv hanging along the wall, but Liam doesn’t let it distract him.

“For starters, everything would be wireless, not only tvs. But tvs definitely would be because there wouldn’t be any casing.” He points to plastic around the picture, “It’d just be a single plate of glass. What’s your future tv look like?”

“Can I show you?”

Liam’s eyebrows rise in shock at Zayn’s calm, yet unexpected response. “Uh, yeah.”

Without a sound, Zayn turns and leads them through the store, the checkout line, and then back out onto the sidewalk. If he were smart, Liam would ask where they’re going, or be somewhat concerned for himself that he’s so willing to be dragged here and there without any insight as to the final destination, but he’s too afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll ruin his chances of finding out whatever it is Zayn’s about to show him. And he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to forgive himself if he got so close to something this heartracing, only to let it be ripped out from underneath him.

**Chapter 3**

They wind up right outside the city centre where buildings start to turn residential and roads widen. Ironically, the sidewalks become narrower, but they veer off, up a brick walkway not too far from the last roundabout and it’s then - when Zayn’s reaching around to unzip his backpack’s front pocket and pull out his keys - that Liam realizes he’s been brought to the other’s flat.

Suddenly, a flurry of negative scenarios come to mind. Namely Zayn being a serial killer and Liam being the idiot that is quite literally about to walk into his house of horrors. Not that that stops him. He automatically follows Zayn through the building’s front door and down the hall like he has all afternoon.

From behind, he can see just how much smaller Zayn’s frame is in comparison to his own, which alleviates a small portion of his anxiety; if need be, he could easily fight his way free. He’s in the process of figuring out the easiest way to pin the man to the ground when Zayn comes to a stop and unlocks flat 108.

Inside, it’s pitch black, not just dark, which worries Liam to no end, but then the lights are being switched on and all his fears vanish.

The flat looks more like an abandoned art studio than a residence. Along the walls are drawings, paintings, papers that are half-finished outlines of rectangle boxes like the ones comics are constricted to, and others that are fully-finished, coloured in, brought to life like someone hit play on the black and white ones. The living room doesn’t have a tv, but where one normally might be is a single bookshelf lined with thin paperbacks, in front of it a wooden trunk that looks like it might hold a bountiful treasure inside. On it there’s an open laptop and what Liam would usually label as an iPad, but now knows better than to call anything other than a drawing tablet.

To the left of the kitchen’s entryway is a massive desk that spans more than half the length of the wall, ending right where the window begins. It’s got piles of papers and a huge monitor on its right side (the largest Liam’s ever seen. He didn’t even know a single desktop monitor could span that far; it has to be close to a meter long), and another drawing tablet that’s the size of a normal monitor, resting on its kickstand to the left of the desktop’s keyboard. There’s a printer-scanner combo separate to that, and rulers piled on top of each other. Underneath are three plastic drawers, holding what looks like hundreds of pens and what other supplies were used to create what’s hanging on the walls. A leather, mid-century modern chair is tucked in the middle of the desk, and of all the furniture, including the beige polyester couch that’s in front of the treasure chest, it looks to be the most expensive.

On Liam’s left, there are stacks of black sketchbooks lining the wall, but only high enough so they don’t fall. They’re situated on top of paint splattered newspaper sheets, as is the entire flat. Liam can’t see a speck of carpet peeking through anywhere.

“Do you live alone?” He asks, realizing how stupid he sounds once the words come out of his mouth. Zayn must, not a lot of people would put up with this.

“Yeah.” The sound of the newspapers crunching like leaves or thick pine needles in a dense forest rings through the otherwise quiet flat as Zayn throws his bag on the sofa and walks into the kitchen. “Do you want some tea? No coffee I’m afraid. I meant it when I said I leave that to you.”

And to think Liam had imagined this man capable of murder.

He turns his blush to the nearest wall after agreeing on a cup of Earl Grey, doing his best not to cringe at the noise that his footsteps create.

He lets his eyes roam the pages of artwork freely until he becomes too overwhelmed by the selection and focuses on one particular piece of an annoyingly bright yellow alien escaping the page’s top rectangle panel, oozing downwards. Its gelatinous form falls along the edges of the other panels on the page, but never enters any of those scenes.

He continues along the wall slowly with the electric kettle bubbling somewhere off in the distance, always wondering if the next page will be the one that shows him what the future looks like according to Zayn. After all, that is the real reason he’s there, but he’s wrong. It’s not on the walls, it’s hidden in the bookshelf.

“I wrote this when I was twenty-two,” Zayn informs him as he hands Liam a graphic novel around three centimeters thick, a mug each now sitting on the cleared off coffee table treasure trunk, along with Liam’s phone so it doesn’t stab him in his back pocket.

ZAP!

Story and Art by Zayn Malik

The cover’s bright red with a white hand gun in the center, very simplistic.

When he opens it, he sees that it’s a utopian world that could live among the likes of Minority Report or Bladerunner. It’s full of all the stereotypes: flying cars, holograms, a skyline full of oddly shaped highrises that no engineer would ever dare approve of today. As Liam flips through the pages he can see that the main character’s a boy, a young teenager with spiky black hair, that carries around the same gun on the front cover in a holster around his waist. When he sees any signs of a dystopian future trying to claw its way through the city - rotting billboards, dull buildings, trash buildup - he uses the gun to zap them away and replace them with something much more bright and euphoric.

Liam’s grateful he has the book’s author sitting next to him explaining all the details so can stay engrossed in the drawings and not have to read the speech bubbles to understand what’s going on, but when he stops flipping to take a sip of his tea, he falls on two blank pages near the book’s middle and becomes confused.

“Why are these here?” He asks after swallowing, returning his mug to the trunk so he can turn back a page and make sure he didn’t miss anything.

“That’s my copy. It’s not the published version.”

Now that he knows this is a rare edition, unlike any the rest of the world has seen, the book feels even more special in Liam’s hands. “Can I borrow this?” He asks, holding it carefully. “I won’t ruin it, I swear. I want to read it all the way through.”

“You can live it.”

Liam stares at him with clouded uncertainty. “How do you mean?”

“What if I told you that I could visit the worlds I create?”

Silence falls over the flat.

Zayn sits still, watching Liam watch him. He doesn’t do anything other than blink and wait patiently for his question to be answered, but Liam wishes he would. He wishes he’d take on a different expression so that he’d know which of the many emotions swimming inside him to lean towards. He’s teetering in the direction of suspiciously interested when Louis pops into his head.

It’d be just like him to pay Zayn to do something like this to get a rise out of Liam. Maybe Niall hid a camera in the spine of one of the books on the shelf to catch his reaction and blast it to his followers for them to laugh at. The thought makes Liam glance over, as if he’ll see a little red light blinking somewhere, but he doesn’t. All that’s there are various titles and authors’ names.

As he stands, Zayn takes the book out of Liam’s grasp gently and sets it down atop an article on Brexit that’s exceptionally bespattered, its two blank center pages still facing the ceiling.

“Is anyone expecting you?” He asks softly.

Liam’s stare moves from Zayn, down to the open book. “No.”

“Then come on. What do you have to lose?”

Zayn’s left hand is outstretched, ready for the taking, but Liam ignores it. He’s stuck trying to figure out if he’s got an answer to the man’s rhetorical question and where they’d be going if he did lace his fingers with Zayn’s lithe ones. He’s about to glance back at the bookshelf to check for any candid cameras he might’ve missed when he notices Zayn’s hand beginning to drop.

_Nothing will ever come from standing behind a french press playing it safe._

The thought springs him off the sofa and makes him take Zayn’s hand. He’s on his way to matching the man’s smile when his entire body’s being jerked towards the ground.

Instead of pain from the sharp impact, he feels like he’s just woken from a dream or some sort of heavy anesthesia. Except he’s not laying down, he’s back to standing. And not in Zayn’s living room, but in someone else’s.

The place is pristine, like a cleaner’s just come and wiped away every last fingerprint from all its surfaces, including the light grey walls and box situated at chest level next to what he assumes is the front door. There’s a couch behind him, much like there was in Zayn’s flat, but this one is white leather and again, so clean that Liam’s afraid to step too close to it. However, besides this one sofa, there isn’t any other furniture in sight.

When he turns, he’s met with a cornucopia of skyscrapers staring back at him through floor to ceiling glass. From this vantage point, he makes a guess that whatever building he’s standing in is at least thirty stories above the ground. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to tell if it’s similar to the others, spiral-like or dangerously lopsided to the point that if the wind were to kiss it at the right angle, it’d come toppling down. As the sun sets on the horizon, he can see people in other highrises going about their lives and flying cars zooming by, other machines too, but Liam’s unfamiliar with what they might be, until he’s remembering them from Zayn’s book - electronic mail carriers.

As he shifts to explore more of the room, he halts, catching a reflection of himself in the glass.

On top of midnight black running tights he’s wearing a layer of baggy shorts that extend down to his upper calves. His top half is covered in a white hoodie, zipped up diagonally across his chest. Along his right arm there are four red chevron arrows pointing downwards that mimic the tattoo he got to represent each member of his family. The ensemble isn’t terribly far off from what Liam might wear on a run during the chilly winter months, black trainers included. Although, the ones at the bottom of his closet aren’t nearly as lightweight as these, nor are their insoles quite as pillowy.

As he’s getting ready to slip the shoes off and inspect their material, a movement in the corner of his eye causes him to jump.

From around the couch comes a miniature zebra the size of a kitten. It’s got the same affectionate energy as one too with the way it walks up to Liam and rubs itself against his ankles; the only thing it’s missing is the purr.

Out of instinct, he reaches down to pet it, running his hand over the animal’s smooth, short coat just long enough to be able to hear a shuffling somewhere else within the flat.

Without anything to protect himself, Liam’s alarm bells go off at full force. He’s clearly intruding in someone else’s home. How’s he to know what their reaction will be when they see a stranger in their flat?

Panicked, he looks behind him to make sure nothing’s there. Once he’s clear of any surprises to his rear, he goes back to facing the room’s one open archway.

The closer the footsteps get, the more can feel his anxiety skyrocket. It’s agony having to hold his breath for this long, but as soon as he sees who it is, his heart doesn’t implode, it does the opposite and shrinks back down to its original size.

“You alright?” Zayn says, eyeing him carefully as he walks into the room with two full hands - one carrying a burlap sack with what looks like two grey skateboards sticking out of it, and the other holding a bowl of strawberries. Unlike Liam’s relatively free-flowing outfit, his is skin tight, resembling a wetsuit. At the same time, there’s absolutely nothing beachy about the way Zayn’s neoprene getup is lit with strands of various LED lights. They wrap around his arms, legs, chest, and go just about every which way. It’s the epitome of futuristic dress.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ok,” Liam replies as his nerves continue to return to normalcy. “Where are we?” He’s pretty sure he knows, but it’s best for Zayn to say it so he knows he’s not crazy.

“Don’t you recognize it? This is my future. From ‘ZAP!’.”

After setting his bag on the couch, Zayn faces the blank wall opposite it and speaks in a commanding tone, “Screen.” Out of nowhere, a thin slice of glass materializes in the center of the wall and begins to show the news. Bewildered, Liam looks for a projector in the ceiling, but finds nothing.

“Table,” Zayn orders, and just like that, a black marble table with white speckles appears before the couch. He takes a seat and kicks his feet up on the new piece of furniture, proving it to be solid and not a figment of Liam’s imagination.

Cautiously, Liam walks over and does the same, noticing that a second miniature zebra has come out to play with the other.

“Here,” Zayn says, offering him the bowl of fruit, “eat a few of these.”

In his hand it feels normal, but given what he’s just witnessed, Liam’s hesitant to put the strawberry he’s picked from the bunch in his mouth. “Are they just strawberries?”

“Infused with energy and vitamins,” Zayn discloses. “I included anti-nausea medication too since this’ll be your first time.”

Taking Zayn for his word, Liam pops the berry into his mouth, waiting for the unpleasant taste of medicine to hit, but it never does. All he’s met with is the sweetness he’s known to grow and love.

With both hands free, he’s passed one of the boards he’d seen sticking out of Zayn’s bag. This close, it’s obvious that he’d been wrong in assuming it to be a skateboard; it’s missing wheels and feels like it’s made out of styrofoam. Two feet shaped indents are in the middle, but without any straps or means to move it forward, he’s unsure how to make it go? Would the wheels show up if he asked them to like the tv and table had?

“What do I do with this?” He asks naively, turning the board over in his hands, but not seeing anything other than a blank grey surface.

“You really have a hard time putting two and two together, don’t you?”

“No, it’s just-” He pauses to bite the inside of his lip, “I don’t want to sound stupid if I guess the wrong thing.”

Sensing Zayn’s poignant stare, he turns, only to realize how close they’re sitting. He can make out a miniscule sunspot that almost gets lost in the man’s thick right eyebrow and the tiny cracks in his lips that look like a maze of dried out rivers. They vanish with a swipe of the tongue.

“I’m only going to say this once, alright?” Liam’s nod gives him permission to proceed. “Fuck whoever made you afraid of speaking your mind.” The blunt explicative provokes a mischievous smile to break out onto Liam’s face. “I’m serious,” Zayn adds with certitude. “Even if it’s just societal pressures striking, you can feel safe with me. Ok?” Again, Liam nods, unsure of what to otherwise say or do now that he’s simultaneously besotted with this man and admirant of his individual beliefs. “I don’t care if what you have to say is the opposite of what I think, just be you.”

“I will,” Liam says once he’s finally found his voice.

“Good, because I quite like who that is.”

That quick, and Liam’s having to put his promise into action, voicing the words that rush to the front of his mouth as opposed to suppressing them. “How do you know that? We’ve hardly spoken.”

“To each other maybe, but I can see the entire cafe from my seat in the corner.”

Is that why he sits there? Occasionally, when Liam couldn’t control his wandering eyes, he’d notice the man watching other customers intently and thought that maybe if Zayn was a writer, he enjoyed the inspiration; the same went for his drawings. Now he’s immensely curious to know, for every time he tried to catch a glimpse of Zayn, how many times did Zayn stop to observe him?

The news playing on the screen ahead switches headlines, rolling footage of an arching building made of bamboo.

“Xander Hiloa has once again made an impressive transformation of City Hall, saving its doors from the dilapidation that began to overtake the front steps.”

A closer shot shows a patch of rotting sludge that looks like it could’ve come from the underside of a radioactive slug, seeping up through the sidewalk cracks and beginning to drag itself towards the building. It’s slow, as if to mock onlookers by taking its time dominating something they love. The screen splits into a before and after shot where the right half displays the steps and surrounding sidewalk as sparkly clean, much like the room Liam and Zayn are currently in. Soon after, a photo of “Xander” is broadcast on the screen.

“Does he know we’re here?” Liam asks, that sinking feeling that comes with trespassing making a resurgence. “Are we ruining the storyline?”

“No. Right now, there is no storyline. We’re merely within the book’s world like it’s our own.”

A hint of comfort comes from hearing their presence won’t get them exiled, but Liam would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about how to get home. Then, Zayn’s handing him a laser gun, the same one that’s featured on the novel’s cover and that Xander’s now brandishing on the screen, and reality becomes the last thing on his mind.

“Don’t pull the trigger until I tell you,” Zayn advises.

He does so nicely, but that doesn’t stop Liam from holding the gun as if it’s riddled with germs or like it’ll go off if he so much as _looks_ at the trigger. He’s contemplating asking what will happen if he does when the other man states that the strawberries have most likely kicked in by now, making it safe to go outside.

Left with no choice, Liam follows him to the door, treating every step like it might be his last, one hand carefully holding his gun and the other his unidentifiable board until Zayn presses his hand to the door’s security box and the grey slab slides sideways.

“What the-”

Extending out from the door is a short platform leading into the sky, about three meters in length. It’s not boxed in by any railings or walls, nor does its end have a barrier. It simply drops off. Into nothing.

In the center of the platform, Zayn throws his board down and hops on as if he’s done so a million times before. Liam takes note of the way his feet seem to magnetize into the board’s top grooves and activates underlying magnetic thrusters.

For a while, Liam stays where he is, staring at Zayn, who’s now hovering an arms length off the ground. He’s set his own board at his feet, but he’s petrified of jumping onto it this close to a literal cliff. What happens if he misses? Or worse, he ends up perfectly fine and his elation leads to accidental gunfire?

Ultimately, he talks himself into throwing caution to the wind and exhales a huge sigh of relief when he lands correctly without any mishaps, balance or laser related. His feet feel as though they’re cemented to the board, and with a few instructions on how to distribute his weight as a means to propel forward and steer, his existential dread has been eliminated. However, it does make another brief appearance when Zayn zips off the edge of the platform and into the early night sky

“I’m rubbish at anything that requires coordination on Earth,” he tells Liam, “but this I’m quite good at. I won’t let anything happen to you. Your shoes won’t either.”

Going off all the blind faith in the world that Zayn’s not setting him up for the ultimate freefall, Liam carefully leans his body forward, and is pleasantly surprised when his board glides as smoothly as it does towards where Zayn’s waiting for him in the abyss.

The further they fly, the more Liam’s fears melt away, to the point that it doesn’t take long for him to feel comfortable enough to zoom past Zayn in order to see just how fast he can go. But he’s never alone for long, Zayn always catches up and stays at his side, smiling peacefully as Liam leads the way, swerving in between buildings and swooping down to see how quickly he can gain altitude all over again. He nearly forgets about the laser gun in his hand until a bright beam of light shoots out alongside him and creates a trail in its wake like a plane’s exhaust, but bright green. A turn of his head lets Liam know that Zayn’s gun is the one responsible, not a nefarious enemy like he thought it might’ve been.

By now, they’ve come to an area with hardly any towering buildings; the largest below them only stands a few floors high. It’s situated in front of a huge car park where several flying cars in the vicinity are lowering themselves down towards, leaving Zayn and Liam in the clear to stay hovering in their spot.

Another beam of green light grabs Liam’s attention. He watches as it’s used to draw a rabbit in the same amount of time it would take him to only finish one of its floppy ears. When the long beam retracts into the gun, the bright outline comes to life, hopping towards a carrot that Zayn’s hastily drawn off to the side. It reaches it right as its colour has fully faded.

“Try it,” Zayn encourages kindly.

Liam looks down at his gun and then out at the expansive atmosphere - their canvas.

He feels a jolt of power when he pulls the trigger, wondering if it’s at all similar to the kickback that comes with firing a real gun as a red ray of light shoots out. As quick as he is to release it, he is to cut it off. The second time he has a go he puts both hands on the gun’s grip to stabilize it, that way it’s easier to draw the simple arrow he’s working on. Once the beam retracts, the pointed line takes off like a shooting star.

“Something a bit bigger,” Zayn insists, giving an example by outlining a quick christmas tree whose lights sparkle on and off into the wind.

“I’m not as talented as you.”

“What’d I say?” Zayn chastises lightly. “No one’s judging you.”

“You said that with words.”

Liam’s cheeky smile earns him an eyeroll and shake of the head.

“I meant with everything,” Zayn says, going back to creating another wonderment. “Words, drawing, cooking, singing.”

“Singing?”

“I’m covering all my bases.”

A sharp flick of the wrist and Zayn lowers his gun. A giant toothbrush stands ten meters in front of them, no sign of animation except for the exaggerated sparkling of its bristles to represent a job well done.

“Tell me about some of the dreams you used to have as a kid,” he prompts, watching Liam think back to a simpler time when he would get up early and every day seemed like the world was at his fingertips.

“They were all over the place,” Liam tells him with a soft smile. “I wish I had written them down. I don’t remember many details now, but back then I could for days.”

As best he can, he reaches back into his memory in search of the cobwebbed box labeled “childhood” and pulls out an anecdote worth telling.

“I was one of those kids who went through proper phases,” he starts, eyes trained on Zayn’s green laser that begins to stitch something together. “For six months it’d be space, then for the other half of the year I’d be obsessed with the jungle and trying to swing like Tarzan from the two trees in our garden. Didn’t work out so great.”

The final line in Zayn’s lightning fast (and scarily accurate) depiction of a green bonfire sizzles and cracks, fake smoke from the fading colour snaking upwards.

“I reckon the longest I had revolved around becoming a Formula One driver,” Liam continues, holding his gun out in front of him with the plan to depict a racecar. “I don’t remember what got me into them. Probably one of my cousins, they were always much more sport savvy than me. At six or seven, all I really knew was to root for West Bromwich, and that’s only because my Dad would’ve disowned me if I didn’t.”

His hand begins to shake as he does his best to close in on the front nose of the car. To make it stop, he tightens his grips and concentrates.

“Anyway, I’d steal a plate from the kitchen, pretend it was a steering wheel, and go around the house like it was a track, making skidding rubber noises until I tired myself out. On the weekends, I’d pester one of my parents to take me to the local bowling alley, not to bowl, but to hog the racing game in the arcade section. My feet could barely reach the pedals, but even so, I didn’t know how to shift gears, so I just rammed into the side rails until me Dad figured out how to change the car setting to automatic.

“He worked at an old airplane factory, and I remember one night he came home with a huge cardboard box that was empty, but had held winglets. You know, the little tips on the ends of the wings?” Zayn nods, attentive, his own drawing on pause. “While I was asleep, he cut out sections and drew over it to make it resemble a racecar. It wound up looking a lot more like a stock car than a Formula One, but I didn’t care, it was so unexpected and greater than anything I could’ve ever asked for.”

Immediately after Liam finishes up with the back fins, the car's tires burn on the nonexistent pavement and skid off to the right where it crosses a finish line that he hadn’t noticed Zayn drafting up; he’d been too busy trying to focus on doing his best with his own work.

“I fit inside perfectly, and played in there every chance I got until one of my sister’s accidentally spilled soda on it and my mum made me throw it away so it didn’t attract ants. I was so pissed.”

As the last of their drawings dissolve into nothingness a comfortable silence falls between them, the sounds of the surrounding utopian city buzzing softly under their feet.

“What do you dream about now?” Zayn asks curiously.

_Building up the courage to talk to you._

“The normal stuff - falling, losing my voice, those kinds of things. My daydreams are a lot more exciting than my nighttime ones. Like-”

Before he keeps talking, he stops himself so he can accompany his story with a drawing.

“Last week, this teenager came in before her lessons and started to harp at me that I hadn’t sweetened her macchiato enough, but in an overly nice tone. The one that people use to wind you up so they can snap back and say that _you’re_ the one that’s out of line when you reach your wits end. I hate it. It’s the worst tactic because technically they’re right, they haven’t said anything malicious, but they mind as well have. I’d rather be told to fuck off than hear ‘you’re doing a great job’ in a sickeningly sweet tone that’s meant to make me explode. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah,” Zayn chuckles.

“I can’t stand it,” Liam grumbles. “For the rest of the morning, I imagined poisoning her drink.”

The chemistry beakers that he had been drawing come to life as soon as the outline is fully complete, animated bubbles pouring out of their open ended tops.

“Should you be telling me this? Aren’t you the manager?” Zayn’s laugh lights up the night sky on its own when he sees the look of horror that comes sover Liam’s face at the thought of exposing such a thought to a customer. “Hey, I’m only kidding,” he ensures the younger male. “My jokes still need reworking, noted.”

“Za-”

“Really, it’s ok,” he says with a wave of the hand. “I’m rusty with talking to others. I’ve spent more time speaking with you today than I have on the phone with my family in the past few weeks.”

He knows he’s supposed to speak openly, but Liam’s not sure how Zayn will take to the question of whether or not he’s lonely. It’s obvious that the man’s not one to say much or elaborate on his words, but Liam’s more than happy to carry the weight of their conversations. Just like Zayn isn’t going to judge him for laying out what’s on his mind, Liam isn’t going to ridicule him for being a subdued introvert.

When he peers up at his beaker set, he sees Zayn’s green laser finishing up the image of a sand bag. It empties over Liam’s bubbling concoctions and neutralizes them, extinguishing their livelihood.

“Hey!” He shouts in protest, right away raising his gun to replace his faded chemistry setup with a huge crashing wave that wipes away Zayn’s mountain of sand.

In retaliation, a dam is created, then a simple crack, followed by a kayak, and so on and so on and so on. They go back and forth like a weird game of chess, each coming up with an idea to destroy the other’s last, but only after a few moments have passed and the drawing can be admired. It continues for a while longer, until Zayn finally places his king diagonal to Liam’s rook with an almighty “checkmate”, drawing a black hole to swallow up Liam’s sad excuse for a tank engine.

He chuckles, putting down his laser crayon as he turns to look at Zayn who’s still got his eyes glued on his illustrious black hole, burning bright. Its reflection gives his face a lime green tint that would wash most out, but for Zayn, only supplies the light to show off his perfectly curled eyelashes. Once the image fades away, he looks to Liam.

“You work tomorrow, right? We should head back.”

“I’m not tired,” Liam objects, not wanting to think about the real world when he’s having this much fun.

“That’s good to hear. Take my hand.”

With a heavy heart Liam does, finding some kind of consolation when he feels Zayn’s smooth skin against his. Their hands hold one another close, the grip between them tightening when Zayn tilts his wrist, causing a bright white rectangle to pop up right below the joint with the time 05:30 in red font.

Liam’s sure he’s read that incorrectly, but Zayn’s bringing the numbers up to his lips and the next time Liam blinks they’re back in Zayn’s living room. It’s such a jarring departure from the world they were just in that Liam almost falls over, but his hand is still attached to Zayn’s and so he clutches it tightly to make sure that he stays standing while regaining his spatial awareness. From the room’s only window, he notes that the sun’s just rising. It really is 5:30 AM, not PM.

“How long were we in there for?” He asks, staring down at their feet where the book is still open to the two blank middle pages.

“I tend to keep my visits to an hour since one in there equals about fifteen out here.”

“Are you serious?” Liam exclaims. It hardly felt like one. “We’ve been gone all night?”

Zayn nods, a startling sound of crumpling newspaper echoing throughout the room as he takes their half-empty mugs into the kitchen after giving Liam’s hand a small squeeze.

Instead of following, Liam picks up his phone off the wooden trunk. Only more missed texts from the work group chat and a reminder to set his alarm for the next morning. He nearly laughs at the notion of his phone being so confused as to why Liam hadn’t followed his ordinary routine and switched on the alarm around eleven, that it felt the need to remind him.

Shaking his head at the preposterous thought of a worried mobile, he looks out the window once more, then down at Zayn’s book, picking it up so it doesn’t get ruined and running his hands all around it as if there was some sort of proof that he hadn’t just made all of that up in his head.

Zayn’s voice startles him as it precedes the crunching of the newspapers.

“I’m not sure what time you go in or how far you live from here, but you’re welcome to take a quick nap before you leave.”

He’d meant it when he said he wasn’t tired, but given that he technically hasn’t slept for over a day and he needs to be at the cafe in an hour, it might be smart to lay his head down. So he does, taking the couch while Zayn sits at his desk and succumbing to the emotional exhaustion that’s suddenly washed over him. When he wakes half an hour later, it’s by Zayn’s soft voice, offering him a shirt to wear.

“You and I both know that you’ll get an earful if you show up wearing what you wore yesterday.”

Liam knows he’s right, especially given that he hadn’t responded to the group chat, so he changes into the black henley after taking a shower and before beginning the fifteen minute walk into town.

“I’ll see you at ten,” Zayn adds, pointing to an orange sketchbook that he’s currently hunched over. “I’m working on something.”

Despite not knowing how a person can work that much, Liam’s glad for the time alone to open up the cafe, before his counterparts arrive.

He’s in a bit of a daze when the lights flicker on. Today, he doesn’t watch them breathe life into the place like he normally does, he’s too busy trying to make sense of his night. Or, whatever that was. In fact, his entire morning ritual feels nothing but robotic. Put apron on, check. Preheat oven for Josie, check. Grind beans, check. Water the various plants and floral arrangements, check. Text print shop Zayn’s picture to print out and replace Harry’s with, check. Not even the day’s first taste of coffee wakes him up. He’s consumed with a million questions that all seemingly meld into one: how?

And he would’ve asked Zayn that exact thing when he came in around ten, except he doesn’t get the chance. He turns mute when Zayn stares at him with a sultry expression he’s never seen before and asks if the shirt he’s wearing is new, moving down the counter without waiting for an answer. “I don’t want to hold up the line” is his excuse.

When he steps out his dance with Josie to let Liam know that they’ll need more skim milk, Niall comes face to face with Liam’s stunned expression and begins laughing under his breath. The second he feels an elbow jab into his ribs, he breaks out into his normal abrasive gaiety. “Better me than Tommo!”

Which is true. If Louis were present for that remark or the storytime session (which had an alternate ending of he and Zayn parting ways after their time at the electronic store) that Liam had subjected himself to when Niall and Josie had gotten in that morning, he’d have done a hell of lot more damage than rambunctious laughter. Josie’s high eyebrow raises and Niall’s nosy requests to know when date number two is, no matter how adamant Liam was that his and Zayn’s afternoon shopping trip wasn’t even date number _one_ , was enough for him to handle.

As the day goes by and Liam stays busy, another thought burdens him with disquiet. How can Zayn live such a calm life knowing what he’s capable of when Liam feels like he’s bursting at the seams with this huge secret? Like every time someone stares at him for a second too long it’s because they can see past his ridiculously flimsy exterior? But he’s too worried that if he shares this with Zayn he runs the risk of never experiencing whatever “it” is again, so he stays quiet and sticks to stealing glances every once and a while at the man in the corner like usual.

On his lunch break he sits in the back and eats one of the cafe’s cinnamon bagels, looking up Zayn’s name while the man naps in his chair, but all that comes up is a sparse Wikipedia page and a professional website that really only has his bibliography and where to buy each novel that he’s put out. There’s nothing about his powers or abilities or whatever they are.

When he clocks back in, he sees that Zayn’s woken up, but only because someone dropped their mug and the shattering of ceramic made a hideously loud crashing sound.

As he’s rushing over to help clean the shards and reassure the customer that they needn’t be worried about the broken mug, Liam’s brain goes elsewhere. Once he’s cleared the area of any other people, he looks down at the pieces of ceramic and imagines he’s holding his laser gun. He’d draw up a dustpan and broom to come sweep away the mess. Then a wood chipper, to eat up the broom.

It goes like that for the rest of his shift, the anxious part of his mind that had been preoccupied inventing questions revolving around the how’s and why’s of Zayn’s future utopia becoming overrun by wild ideas that could only be made possible in that same world. There’s the pair of tongs he pretends are robotic arm extensions and the window cleaner that sprays glass rather than polishes it. The one bucket purse of a customer that he envisions is bottomless like Mary Poppins’ and the front barstool he destroys with an invisible grenade. A few concepts float through his head that he’s confident are impressive enough to share with Zayn, but each time he takes to looking in the corner, he’s instantly intimidated into shyness when he sees how the provocative tint from that morning still hasn’t dissipated. It’s flattering, yet slightly mortifying how a simple clothing swap could do that to a person as self-contained as Zayn, which is why after Liam stops by the print shop later that afternoon, he goes straight home to put the shirt in the wash. Tomorrow, he'll be able to breathe easier. In the meantime, he’s in dire need of a twelve hour nap.

**Chapter 4**

As handsome as Zayn is, the wall to the left of the register looks odd without Harry's photo hanging on it.

Afterall, it had been its sole decoration for ten months, excluding the blackboard resume that’s now Zayn’s and full of new reading material for people to look over. It became blatantly obvious at month four that Louis had run out of inventive questions for Harry to answer once those waiting in line for their morning pick me up had become immune to the board’s novelty. But those days are over.

 _You’re welcome_ , Liam thinks to himself each time he notices someone do a double take at the fresh face smiling back at them behind a squeaky clean frame. He gives himself an extra pat on the back anytime one of them stops their timeline scrolling and takes an interest in reading the bullet points that took twenty minutes to look neat.

At ten, his thoughts are put on pause when the man of the hour arrives, which Liam doesn’t shy from boasting about, addressing Zayn as “Early Bird’s newest celebrity” at a volume that’s a tad louder than he would normally use. He can’t say he’s fully confident enough to use the same when he’s complimenting how the glossy photo looks on display for all, but that doesn’t stop Zayn from blushing lightly at the reduced level that is used.

Unfortunately, that’s all the flattery he can afford to give while on duty. Business comes first, and thanks to a regional youth chess tournament that’s taking place at the community centre a few blocks down, things are relatively busy for a Wednesday. However, he can’t say he’s too mad at that being the case. With the way he can _feel_ Josie and Niall listening in on his left, he appreciates the abundance of helicopter parents ruining his chance of mentioning how he’d return Zayn his shirt once he finds the time.

It turns out that doesn’t come until the end of his shift. A shipment came in that needed tending to for most of the day, and by the time he’d finished, ready to use his post-lunch break as his delivery window, it was Zayn’s turn to be preoccupied. And to Liam’s surprise, it wasn’t due to work. When he peered over at the man in the corner, he saw him on the phone, smiling to the point that his nose scrunched up and his eyes crinkled at the sides like Liam knows his do whenever he’s truly overjoyed about something.

“I would’ve returned this to you sooner, but the day got away from me,” he says, handing over one of his many reusable canvas bags to the other who had already clocked him walking up from the counter. “I washed it. Thanks for letting me wear it yesterday.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” Liam blushes as Zayn shoves the tote into his backpack after inspecting its contents. “You hungry?”

If only that question had been asked one minute earlier, before Liam had nicked a stale cookie off Josie to hold him over until dinner. Not that that stops him from saying yes. A little white lie to spend some extra time with the one you’ve been fawning over for months never hurt anyone.

“Good, let’s grab barbecue. I’ve been craving it.”

As pleased as he is to hear how nonchalant Zayn is about making plans like they’ve been close friends for years, Liam’s equally surprised. But as he watches pens and pencils get stashed away, he finds a different emotion bubbling its way to the surface, one that’s been following him around like a thunder cloud for the past forty-eight hours, rumbling but never letting its lightning strike - angst.

“What we did the other night,” he prefaces quietly, “I’m supposed to keep that a secret, right?”

A subtle smile comes over Zayn’s lips as he zips up his bag and it’s then that Liam realizes how damning those words strung together probably sounded, to Zayn himself or any of those within earshot that had heard. Like they somehow broke the law, or that Liam had played a part in corrupting Zayn’s relationship, unbeknownst to his lover.

“Sure.”

_Sure?_

“You don’t care if people know?” Liam asks dumbfoundedly, following in Zayn’s shadow as the man slings his backpack over his shoulder and makes his way to the door.

They’re about to push through when Niall shows up at their side.

“Where are you two headed?” Hand out, he sends Zayn an honest smile that Liam knows is anything but. “Niall.”

It’s unclear if Zayn can see past the Irishman’s feigned innocence when he reciprocates the shake and name exchange, but if he can, he doesn’t make it known. “Firehouse Grill down the road,” he adds, completely carefree. “Then maybe back to my place to visit one of my sketched out parallel universes. What about you?”

Out on the sidewalk, Niall’s steps come to a screeching halt, meaning the others’ do too. He looks between the two for a moment and then bursts out in laughter so blaringly loud, those working along the bar inside the cafe turn to stare through the window. “I’m meetin’ friends at the pub,” he says once he’s returned to earth. “Try not to have too much fun playin’ Alice in Wonderland.” Liam’s shoulder gets a hard slap before Niall’s leaving him and Zayn to their own devices, a low “fuckin’ mystery tattoo lad…” just barely audible as he does.

With his hands in his pockets, fully unbothered, Zayn turns to Liam, “Does that answer your question?”

Plenty. And truth be told, if Liam was in Niall’s shoes, he can’t say he wouldn’t have reacted to such a preposterous statement any differently. Maybe not as outwardly brash, but on the inside he certainly would’ve labeled the idea certifiable.

But Liam’s got more than just the one question.

“Why me?” He asks later when they’re sitting down with their sandwiches slathered in so much barbecue sauce that the brown liquid threatens to drip out of the butcher paper at just about every crease. “Why did you choose to let me in on what you can do?”

“Because,” Zayn starts as he carefully unwraps his sandwich without so much as a hint of discomfort, like this isn’t a topic of conversation that’s completely abnormal, “I wanted to prove to you that you’re creative. All day you were trying to convince me that you weren’t, but really you are. And,” he stops to take a bite off the exposed end of his sandwich, leaning over their table as a precaution in case any sauce spills. Only once he’s chewed and swallowed does he finish his thought. “I followed my gut in thinking that you’d appreciate it.”

Midway through blanketing his lap in napkins, Liam gets this unmistakable feeling of gratefulness from being understood. He’s relieved that he’s done _something_ right to make Zayn think that of him. Because it’s true, Liam has the utmost of respect and appreciation for what it is that’s been shared with him, even if it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was in need of some fun after the way he spoke about himself the other day that made it seem like his inner monologue is always self-deprecating. He’s still not sure how to convince Zayn that it isn’t without coming out and explicitly saying it though. There’s a good chance he wouldn’t believe him, would think that he’s only trying to cover his tracks.

Sparing himself the headache of trying to work that out right then and there, Liam returns to the conversation at hand. “It was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time,” he replies. _Possibly ever._ “But…” The slight pause calls for a pointed stare from Zayn that Liam’s learning always precedes a lecture, so he hurries up and lets out his words before he’s being forced to. “I feel like I can’t sit still.” Zayn glances down at Liam's chosen seat. “No, I mean, it’s only been two days and I’m finding it hard to...accept normal life. Does that make sense?” Zayn nods at the question laced in vulnerability, a drop of barbecue sauce falling from the corner of his mouth and just barely landing on the table’s rounded edge. “How can you be so relaxed all the time?”

“I’ve had fifteen years to adjust.”

“Who else knows?”

Liam’s self-aware enough to know that at the age of twelve, there’s no way he’d be able to handle going around the schoolyard and not telling everyone in sight.

“My sisters,” Zayn answers, examining his sandwich for the next prime bite. “And my two best friends. They were the only ones I was sure of who wouldn’t take advantage of me.”

Two people outside of Zayn’s family have been made aware of his abilities. Two in fifteen years, that’s it. Three, now that Liam’s been inducted into the private club. Perhaps the solution to his feelings of unsettlement is buried in the unity that would come from meeting the club’s other members.

“You should eat that before it gets cold,” Zayn advises, nodding to Liam’s untouched sandwich. “Tastes better hot.”

Eating’s the last thing on Liam’s mind at the moment, but he still picks up his food and begins to unwrap it slowly while continuing to do the same with Zayn’s psychology. “How’d you find out you could…” Unsure how to phrase it, Liam resorts to using Zayn’s own words. “Visit your parallel universes?”

“Running away from bullies,” Zayn informs him, wiping his mouth with one of Liam’s spare napkins. “At around twelve, kids started to realize that my skin complexion wasn’t exactly pristine. As if it had been any different before then,” he mutters bitterly. “Anyway, I was running from a group of them, turning a corner to take a shortcut home and tripped. But since they initially caught me off guard, I didn’t have time to pack my sketchbook in my bag. Instead of breaking my fall, its open pages just sort of swallowed me in. And that was that.”

“Everything happens for a reason I suppose.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow at the other’s optimistic conclusion, “Tell that to my black eye the week after.”

“No,” Liam rushes, “I just meant, even though the reasoning for it wasn’t great, if you weren’t at the right place at the right time, you would’ve never found out what you did. Trust me,” he deadpans, “I know plenty about what makes the best ice pack.”

“What irrational thing did they see wrong with you?”

“They thought of me as the teacher’s pet.”

“Were you?”

At first, Liam’s taken aback by the bluntness of the question, but he soon lets it go and thinks back to his early years in secondary school when his raised hand would illicit quiet laughter and helping clean out the terrarium his geography teacher kept at the back of the room after class once a week would earn him eyerolls. Wolverhampton’s a world away from any of the deserts where succulents grow. He couldn’t help it he found the cacti and their prickly needles fascinating.

“I’ve always been the responsible type, so you can imagine how that went over as a pre-teen.” Zayn smiling lightly around his can of Rubicon tells Liam he knows exactly what he’s talking about. “Responsible equals dull. And dull plus not a lot of friends equals a football kicked at your back.”

“I woulda’ been your friend. Being dependable’s not a bad thing.”

“Yeah,” Liam scoffs, “sure. Tell that to my bruised shoulder blade.”

Zayn simpers at his phrasing being used against him, “It’s not.”

Both of Liam’s eyebrows practically reach his hairline. He’d be willing to bet that the adults those chubby kids grew up to be wouldn’t approve of Zayn’s simple rebuttal. But Zayn doesn’t really look to care what anyone thinks; he’s crinkling up his empty butcher paper and reclining back in his seat, observing the others in the shop much like he does at the cafe in between typing and long strokes of his pen.

While he finishes up the last third of his sandwich, Liam finds himself doing the same, searching faces and purses, containers of glistening baked beans and beer tap handles for some sort of creative inspiration like Zayn’s taught him to do.

He holds on a framed photo of a bull in a ring. There’s a fire in its eyes, as though it’s staring at a matador that’s just out of view, taunting him with a red cloth. Devoid of a laser from the year 4000, Liam’s got no choice but to draw the man in his head and imagine the bull going straight towards the sheet, only to slam into a block of cement that was concealed behind it like a cartoon, the bull’s body crunching up and then bouncing back like an accordion.

“I’ve been practicing.”

Zayn looks up from where he was staring at a terrier that’s been brought into the restaurant on a leash by someone picking up a takeaway order. He doesn’t say anything, but Liam can tell from the silent stare that he’s being asked to elaborate.

“Exercising my imagination,” he says, feeling his lips slowly twist up into a smile when he watches Zayn’s do the same. “If we can, I’d like to go back in your book and show you.”

As eyes survey him slowly, Liam does his best to fight his initial reaction of disquiet. If he’s going to be lucky enough to get to spend more time with the man currently seeking an invisible sign of some sort, he needs to get used to the bouts of silence that show up from time to time.

“We can go back on one condition,” Zayn offers in earnest. He almost cracks at Liam’s sprightly “anything”. “We only visit the books _I_ choose.”

In what world was offering up more fictional universes to discover a question someone would dare say no to?

“Deal,” Liam promises resolutely.

“And, you have to go on a proper date with me.”

Now that was a request worth thinking over.

And not in order to decipher its value, but to ensure that it hadn’t been some sick joke that Liam conceived himself. In the seven months he’s been admiring Zayn from afar, he hadn’t ever expected to be the one getting asked out, and certainly not with sticky fingers and strings of brisket stuck in between his back teeth. His fantasies never really went any farther than building up the courage to talk to Zayn. But considering how long that took, they’d probably be in their mid-thirties by the time he managed to develop enough of a backbone to do what Zayn just had.

He keeps his pursed lips aimed downwards as he answers with a meek, “That’s two conditions.”

“I know,” Zayn says amiably. “It looks like I need to work on my jokes _and_ my flirting.”

“There’s nothing you need to work on.”

Tearing his eyes away from his layer of napkins, Liam finds himself still being stared at in a calm manner; Zayn’s neither embarrassed at outing himself, nor awkward from keeping his attention focused on one person for so long.

_If there is something you need to work on, it’s definitely not your self-confidence._

“So, is that a yes?”

“One hundred percent,” Liam grins.

With a single nod and firm “good”, Zayn stands and picks up his and Liam’s trash. “Back to my place it is.”

As he waits for Zayn to come back from the bins, Liam’s stomach does flips out of pure, unadulterated excitement. It’s what causes him to look at the two plastic wrapped toothpicks Zayn unveils upon his return like they’re sweets rather than a device to help get rid of any pesky leftovers jammed in your gums. He takes the one on the right, unwraps it, then sticks it in his mouth where his anticipatory energy can play around with it.

“You know,” Liam starts while holding the door open for Zayn to pass through, “maybe one of these days, you can invite your mates to come over and the four of us can all go into a book of yours together.”

“Can’t,” Zayn says, placing the sliver of wood smack dab in the middle of his smile that seems to have gotten wider ever since Liam agreed to his second condition. “They’re dead.”

**Chapter 5**

After his measly “oh, I’m sorry” and Zayn’s easy “what happened, happened”, Liam’s given the rest of the ten minute walk to process his thoughts (what minimal ones he has, given the lack of details) in silence. It’s difficult not to let them wander to Andy and how he had been Liam’s savior when he came to town as the new kid, single-handedly putting a stop to Liam’s bully problem while also scrounging up a few other floater kids to create a small group of their own. Had it not been for university, they’d probably all still be friends.

Sitting on Zayn’s couch, Liam’s empathetic shock remains. While Zayn stands in front of his bookshelf, running his fingers over the spines of his extensive graphic novel collection, Liam wiggles his sock covered toes and sends the paint stained newspaper underneath them into a crunching mess.

The sound intensifies once Zayn finds what he’s looking for and places the open book in almost the exact same place as the last. Not being able to check the title leaves Liam clueless as to what will await them, and that in itself spikes his nerves. Nevertheless, he stands and takes Zayn’s hand, using the back and forth motions of the man’s thumb to soothe the miniature chaos his mind’s just created. The easygoing “ready?” cleans up the last of it.

“Ready.”

Before he can finish inhaling a deep breath, Liam blinks and ends up with brand new scenery.

He’s standing in front of a mahogany bar, so immaculately polished that the bright sunshine that’s coming in from the window on his right gives the wood a glistening effect. There’s loud chatter to the rear of him, but he focuses on the two men that are behind the bar, each dressed the same: black suit vests over white button downs. They’re both clean shaven, except for wiry mustaches that extend upwards, and have their hair slicked back with a shine similar to the wood Liam’s right forearm is leaning against. Each appear to be in their forties, one on either side of the decade. The younger’s tending to the cash register that looks more like a typewriter with its tall keys standing out from a metal body and the loud clunking sound that it makes when the man presses down on a few of the numbered buttons, one of which triggers the bottom tray to burst open; he tosses a few coins in. The other man’s tending to a patron around the bar’s corner whose face Liam can’t see due to the worker blocking his view, but what he can see is the barman pulling out a glass bottle from under the counter and slamming it on the edge of the hidden shelf there. While the bottle’s emptied into a beer mug, Liam picks out a shotgun hidden in the shelf’s shadows. His eyes widen and snap back to the view in front of him so he can return to minding his own business.

On the wall he notices a large “WANTED” poster with several profile photos, the middle of which looks oddly like Louis. Underneath the mugshots are clear instructions: “$100 REWARD - Dead or Alive” and below that, “$50 REWARD if driven out of town”.

He’s about to lean forward in order to make out the smaller print explaining their offenses when he sees movement in one of the two oval mirrors that are hanging along the wall on either end of the bar. When he cranes his head to get a better look at what caused it, he sees himself reflected in the streaked glass.

Like the workers, he’s clean shaven, but different from them, his cheeks are dirty, like he’s just got done working in the garden and instead of wiping his hands on his trousers, he’s run the backs of them over his face. On top of his head he’s got on a flat brimmed, tan hat, so wide that it extends a good ten centimeters away from his ears and when he leans his head down, he can see that its crown is about as tall as a balled fist. His upper half is covered in a double-breasted bib shirt, and with it being a dark black colour, it’s impossible to tell if it’s as dirty as his face. When he looks down, he sees that he’s wearing thick, blue jeans with the ends tucked into a pair of worn out rawhide boots. On the back of their raised heels are golden spurs, but what really gets his attention is the strip of fat, silver bullets that aligns with his leather belt. Right below the crook in his elbow, there’s a matching pouch holding a six shooter revolver.

“What’ll it be?”

Liam’s head snaps up, seeing that the older of the two barmen is waiting for an answer. When he’s not given one right away, he turns suspicious, staring Liam down with a bewildered expression that matches how the visitor’s currently feeling.

What was he doing with a gun? And so out in the open?

“Wanna snort or not?”

This time around, Liam registers the man’s thick Texan accent, and because he’s never heard one in person before he can only imagine how poorly the resulting shock helps him blend in.

“You gonna talk?” The man asks impatiently. “Or am I just barkin’ at a knot?”

It’s all a lot at once. The jargon that Liam can’t seem to make sense of, the man’s growing irritation that’s bordering on threatening, the worry that if he were to respond in a brummie English accent he might find out if the shotgun he’d spotted below the bar is loaded or not. Or worse, if he moved too suddenly, his own firearm would go off due to his own incompetence.

He can remember from his last magical transport that he’s not interrupting a graphic novel’s plot line by being inside, but Liam can’t help but feel as though there’s some sort of predestined script playing out around him and that if he tampers with it at all, does anything too spontaneous, he’ll royal fuck something up. So he stays looking like a fish out of water until there’s a sudden crash resulting in flickering waves of sunlight brightening up the saloon.

Zayn nearly trips over his own black, knee high leather surplus boots after smashing through the swinging doors, which are losing their momentum after catching on one another several times.

He’s got on grey bottoms that look like they could’ve been black at one point, but have been washed so many times that they’ve dulled to a charcoal grey colour. Cream braces are attached to their waistband, helping to keep his white button down in place more than it already is tucked into the trousers. In addition, there’s a silver chain hooked onto one of his belt loops, leading into the bottoms’ tiny right pocket that’s sewn into the larger.

Around his neck he’s got a rolled up red bandana tied in a lazy knot, and similarly to Liam, he’s cleanly shaven It’s so close that the nearer he gets to the bar, the more it looks like Zayn doesn’t even have hair follicles along his jaw at all; his skin’s as smooth as butter.

“Lawrence,” he calls, “another pony o’ whiskey.” Now that he’s at Liam’s side, he can easily point to him, dramatically leaning his upper body over the bar he’s done so. “One for Liam too. And none of that bluestone, ya hear?”

Liam’s eyes flicker between Zayn, whose strong Yorkshire accent has been replaced with the local lilt, and the barman, who’s decoded the order and is looking back at Liam as if to say ‘see? That’s all I was asking of you’.

As soon as they’re left alone, he squares his shoulders with Zayn, who’s running a hand over his hair to smooth it down. Even that’s different - parted down the middle with the sides matching the length of the top.

“Your accent’s gone.”

Before he can stop himself, Liam’s slapping a hand over his mouth. Only after Zayn chuckles and quips “so is yours” does he remove it.

“Where are we?” He asks, watching as a cloth pouch and thin envelope that reads “This book of cigarette papers FREE with each 5¢ sack” is pulled from one of Zayn’s trouser pockets. To Liam’s surprise, there’s no steel protection laced in the belt loops above them.

“Where do ya think?” Zayn laughs freely while pulling out a sheet of white paper as thin as a butterfly’s wing from the envelope. “Wild West, 1895.” Like he’s about to partake in hard labour, he rolls up his sleeves, revealing bare arms.

Quickly, Liam does the same to see that he’s without any tattoos as well, his eyes flitting back to the bar counter where Zayn’s begun rolling his cigarette with zero coordination.

“You’re drunk,” Liam comments.

“Roostered,” Zayn corrects smugly. “And no, I’m not. Just tipsy. Only had a couple of glasses before I went ‘round to the general store to get a new matchbook,” he removes a small box with an eagle on the front and a flimsy strip of strike sandpaper hanging on its side from his other pocket.

“But didn’t we just get here?”

The barman receives a curt nod in return for the two stout glasses, filled a third of the way with hazel liquid. He gets another in acknowledgment for his mention of adding them to Zayn’s tab.

“Don’t overthink it,” Zayn dismisses, raising the glass closest to him in a toast. “Just have a hog-killin’ time.”

Anymore of these euphemisms and Liam’s going to need a dictionary, especially since he’s sure his dumb, confused expression is what’s causing Zayn to giggle prior to clinking their glasses together. Although it’s nothing in comparison to the show he puts on when the amber liquid hits his tongue. All of what Zayn’s just put into his mouth comes close to spurting out at the way Liam’s face scrunches up sourly like he’s just bit into an entire lemon.

“The most your friend can handle is an Adam’s Ale,” the barman snides with a fierce side eye aimed towards Liam and his over the top reaction.

“Naw, Liam’s ace-high.” Finished with his cigarette, Zayn glances up and watches as Liam vigorously scrapes his tongue against the roof of his mouth to rid himself of the bitter aftertaste that’s been left by the acrid beverage. “But maybe you should get him one anyway.”

Liam’s expecting to see a tall glass full of brown when the barman returns, not the clear drink that’s unwillingly set in front of him.

What sort of game is this? If he couldn’t handle this world’s whiskey, what makes Zayn think he could do with _this_ much vodka or tequila? Still, he brings the glass up to his lips, inconspicuously sniffing it to prepare himself before he takes a sip, but there’s no scent and when the cool liquid hits his taste buds, he knows why. It’s water.

“You look good all dirtied up like that,” Zayn says in a low tone of voice.

Caught off guard by the suggestive remark, Liam hurries to look around and see if anyone heard, but Lawrence has gone to chat with the other barman and male on the corner, and the others in the room - the source of the louder banter - are all sat around wooden tables playing cards.

“I don’t know much about the Wild West,” he divulges, leaning into Zayn’s space as an extra safety precaution, “but I don’t think flirting with the same gender was all that accepted.”

“No one’s paying attention to me,” Zayn replies offhandedly. “Besides, anyone gives us trouble and the deputy’s right over there.”

A second glance over his shoulder allows Liam to see that one of the pot bellied men sitting around the farthest corner table has a silver badge pinned to his suit’s lapel. He’s dealt his hand, then hides it against his chest so quickly that his chair nearly toples backwards.

“Or _you_ can give ‘em hell,” Zayn suggests. “I’d get a lot less done during the day if you made mochas with one of them strapped to ya.”

Bringing his attention back to Zayn, Liam follows his eyes down to his leather holster, blushing lightly.

When he dares to look up, Liam instantly begins studying the shape Zayn’s lips take around the glass of whiskey he’s throwing back, then again when he sets his lazily rolled cigarette between them. There’s nothing inherently special about them. They’re thin, and a little dry now that paper’s situated against them, but that doesn’t stop Liam from finding them simply intoxicating to stare at. It’s that realization - how unique he is in finding so much beauty in something so ordinary - that brings him closer to understanding Zayn’s fascination with protective figures carrying guns outside of the obvious masculine typecast.

“It’d get in the way,” Liam says of his revolver, lost in the way Zayn’s features relax as the tip of his cigarette glows amber from a sharp inhale. “And I might shoot off one of Niall’s toes reaching for the sugar.”

Smoke’s blown away from Liam and out into the open space. “He’s got nine more.”

He shouldn’t, but Liam can’t help but feel slightly guilty for how wide he smiles at the joke, reverting back to fixating on the other’s smoking technique once the moment’s passed.

“You wanna kiss me?”

Startled by the bold inquiry, Liam immediately turns his panicked eyes up to meet Zayn’s. “What?”

“I said, d’ya wanna kiss me?” Casually (or arrogantly, Liam can’t tell), the man takes another long drag. “You’re starin’ at my lips like ya do,” he says on the exhale.

Not since he was a teenager, struggling with his romantic abilities did Liam remember his cheeks flushing so often. He won’t dare check the mirror to see how crimson they’ve turned. And yet, he struggles to find an answer that won’t worsen his embarrassment. Because saying “yes, I’ve been thinking about kissing you a lot more as of late” would almost certainly lose him that first date.

To work out an answer that’s acceptable, he looks anywhere _but_ Zayn’s lips. The used match laying on the counter, his still-full glass of water, a pair of men who have just walked in and are joining the solo male at the bar’s corner with a slap to the back. As they get comfortable, one of the newcomers works something around in his mouth, then bends down to spit out a grotesque wad of saliva mixed with chewing tobacco into one of the metal spittoons that line the floor around the bar like a collection of compressed vases. A tinny, hollowed ring signals that he didn’t miss.

“Chiseler! Lemme see your hand!”

Both Liam and Zayn’s heads swivel back to the card tables in time to watch the sheriff lay out his cards for all to see, namely the man who’s accused him of cheating. As the harsh reality strikes, each of the losers throw down their cards and relinquish their bets for the sheriff to take. One man’s so beaten up, he shoves his pile of coins across the table himself like the faster they’re out of his sight, the better.

They join the miniature mountain of winnings that’s so large, the deputy can’t fit it all in his leather pouch, so he resorts to cupping what’s left in his palms and walking it over to the bar where he all but throws them down on the slick wood. They roll in every direction and are too many for him to catch on his own. Those that drift his way Liam stops, sliding what he can back towards the rest of the bunch before they travel too far or topple over the bar’s edge. Briefly, he and the officer make eye contact, but only after the latter’s taken note of Liam’s empty hands. He bows his head in courtesy. Liam does the same.

“Get this man a Lone Star.” the deputy orders Lawrence. “On me.”

Liam can feel his surprise, but he’s sure to deliver a quick and firm “thank you” when a cold mug of beer is served his way. In case it’s rude not to, he takes a sip off the top at the same time as the sheriff. The beer’s light, airy with tons of carbonation and a sour barley flavour that Liam actually quite likes. But as he watches the sheriff clean the froth off his mustache with one of the dirtied white towels that are hanging on hooks below the bar, he thinks twice about taking another drink.

When it’s back to being just him and Zayn on their side of the counter, he surrenders the mug over to his friend.

“You don’t like this either?” Zayn says in disbelief.

“Odd stick,” Lawrence mumbles, shaking his head as he counts out the coins that the sheriff’s left to pay for his day’s drinks.

“I do,” Liam insists, “it’s just…”

Though it’s against their verbal pact, Liam abstains from saying anything about how he doesn’t think it’s a good idea for both of them to be drunk in a place this far from home. Even when Lawrence leaves them for the back room, Liam keeps the truth to himself.

“It’s just what?” Zayn goads, smiling around what’s left of his cigarette. “You’re holdin’ out for an espresso? Because if that’s true, you’re gonna be waitin’ here ‘til the cows come home. And even though I’m sure you’ve got the patience to do that, I wouldn’t call bein’ out in the open all night worth it. Or fun.”

Instinctively Liam bites his lip before taking a drink of his water. “I’d keep ya safe,” he promises with a feather light tap to his gun.

A particularly sharp inhale turns the last of the rolling paper bright red, like a car engine roaring back to life after sitting idle for a small while. The man behind the action is trying to play coy with his restrictive smile, but he’s crossing the line between tipsy and drunk, so the unimpressed side glance comes off more juvenile than it does enticing.

“In that case,” Zayn purrs, “maybe I’d reconsider.”

Liam pushes his beer closer to the other male. “You take it. I’m good with my water.”

Zayn looks at the two drinks of Liam’s that are now his, and then taps the end of his cigarette towards the ground, letting the wisps of gray fall without so much as a second thought to how the wood building’s a timber box just waiting for a dumb enough cowboy to do as Zayn’s just done and set it ablaze.

“A protector _and_ a gentleman,” he smirks. “I can work with that.”

Liam’s in the middle of thinking up a slick comeback, something to keep this smooth streak going, when an ear-splitting crack fills the air.

Along with the rest of the men in the saloon, he drops down to the ground just as fast as his heart sinks into his stomach. The second gunshot sounds like it’s gone off right behind his back it’s so loud, and because of that, he doesn’t waste any time scuttling around the edge of the bar nearest to the door, yanking Zayn with him by one of his braces and leaving his hat where it’s fallen.

He makes sure that their backs stay against the wood, noting that the men who were already standing on this side of the counter have too much alcohol in their blood to have as fast of a reaction time and are just now lowering themselves to the ground. It’s unfortunate that they’ve got to be this close to one of the spittoons given how terrible it reeks, but if it means they’re safe, then they’ll just have to grin and bear it.

“He’s strong too.”

Liam goes to throw a hand over Zayn’s mouth, but stops himself at the sight of the cigarette stub that’s still dangling between the man’s lips. Worried that the smoke will give away their position in case whoever just fired those shots comes inside, he pulls the cigarette out of Zayn’s mouth and tosses it into one of the spittoons.

“Shut up,” he hisses at the same time a scuffle can be heard taking place in the back room.

A third shot explodes through the saloon, followed by a heavy thud that Liam swears he can feel travel through the floor’s wood paneling.

At this low angle, his gun’s digging into his side, and although he feels like he could very well throw up at any moment from how tight of a chokehold anxiety’s got on him, he slowly pulls the revolver out of its holster. With it in his palm, he checks to make sure that it’s loaded.

For almost a minute, no sounds come from the back room, and while he’s very obviously not one of Lawrence's favourite customers, Liam still chooses to stay ignorant in thinking the man’s hiding behind a barrel or two of beer, unharmed.

Carefully, he braves a peak around the corner. All of the card players, deputy included, don’t look to really grasp the seriousness of the scenario; they’re too drunk. At the sight, Liam wonders if he’s overreacting, if what’s going on is a normal occurrence for someplace like the town they’re in. But then heavy footsteps enter the room, and he’s back to pressing himself flush with the bar.

“Unless anyone here wants to take a lead plum to the head like y’all’s friend in the back, I suggest stayin’ down.”

Above, the metal of the cash register starts to rattle, telling Liam that the thief is standing exactly where he and Zayn just were - less than three or four steps away.

Besides the emptying of the till and the sound of horses hooves outside, it’s quiet, making it easy to hear when someone - presumably the second barman - starts to move around behind the counter. Reaching for the shotgun, if Liam were to guess.

“What’d I say?”

When shots ring out again, Liam’s eyes slam shut in revolt. They stay that way through the noise of a struggle taking place over the counter until the severity of his situation sinks in. Every last person in the room is wasted except him. If he doesn’t do anything to help himself, no one will.

He puts his mouth up to the shell of Zayn’s ear like he’s going to kiss it, “Can you run?”

Zayn nods, panic looking to have finally set in now that the action’s become as close as it has.

Several more shots go off, their volume unbearably loud. While Liam follows his first instinct and squeezes his eyes closed, he doesn’t let the darkness that comes from doing so fill with fear. Rather, he utilizes the blackout as a means of tapping into his sense of hearing, which allows him the ability to make out the sound of a gun being reloaded, bullet by bullet.

He turns to look at Zayn first and then his own weapon.

Prior to the adventure he went on two nights ago, the last time he pulled a trigger was when he was nine and cooling off in the small patch of grass at the front of his house, pelting his cousin with hose water from a translucent squirtgun. He had no idea how to operate a real firearm, much less one from before the Industrial Revolution, but he had to believe that in Zayn’s fictional world, he was an expert marksman. He couldn’t afford not to, none of them could.

_If I die, at least it won’t be in my sleep._

In one fluid motion, he undoes the safety, cocks the barrel and looks around the corner, shooting at the heavily weighted burlap sack that’s hanging over the edge of the bar. Coins and various bulky goods fall through the freshly blown hole and go crashing to the ground.

“Now!” Liam yells, waiting for Zayn to get off the floor and bolt towards the swinging doors before he follows.

As he’s about to throw himself through the swinging panels, he looks over his shoulder and watches as the robber’s bandana falls from around his face, revealing a look of pure aggravation that’s fully recognizable. He’s only seen it a handful of times working with Louis throughout the years, but once would’ve been enough to have it be ingrained in his mind forever.

He’s in a stupor, the sound of boots jumping off the bar and cursing incomprehensible. Blame terror for kicking his feet into gear. He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that he’s got to get him and Zayn out of there. Pissing off the most wanted outlaw in the area won’t end well if he doesn’t.

“Come on!” Zayn yells from the dirt street where he’s untying one of the horses that had been posted in front of the water trough right outside the saloon.

Another shot goes off. And while it may just be his current state of shock, Liam swears he feels a bullet whiz past his arm.

He jumps all three stairs and sprints to the brown horse, whose coat - a shade similar to the maple wood that’s been used to construct most of the shops that line the abandoned Main Street - is shimmering like the sun that’s high in the sky.

As if it were second nature, he swings his legs over the horse and scooches forward to make room for Zayn, thrilled that the other man’s able to scramble up on his own and not hold them back.

The saloon’s front doors swing open to reveal Louis’ twin, his menacing scowl and silver weapon ready to end the person who’s dared to make a fool of him. But Liam’s just as prepared, and as soon as he spots the criminal, he pulls the trigger of his own gun; it’s Louis’ retaliation shot that tells him he’s missed.

Ducked down, he kicks his heels into the horse’s sides, holding onto the leather reins tightly as the animal takes orders and shoots forward into town.

Zayn’s arms can be felt wrapping around his torso, and his cheek pressing against Liam’s curved spine. If he hadn’t drunk so much, Liam would’ve handed him the gun and told him to shoot while he steered, but he doesn’t trust Zayn as inebriated as he is. So, he keeps his revolver glued to his left hand and steers with his right, even though it's hardly warranted considering the street’s completely empty, almost like the place is a ghost town. The few stray carts and abandoned horses lining the dirt street the only proof that it has any inhabitants at all.

“If we run him out of town far enough, I bet we can come back and get that $50 reward,” Zayn says over the sound of hooves both below, and behind them.

They’re coming up on that marker, where the string of shops end and empty out to a vast desert. Pure dirt and distant mountain ranges is all that’s visible for as far as the eye can see. There’s no telling what constitutes as “far enough” or even where they can go for cover afterwards.

“Zayn,” Liam yells, terrified at the newest though that’s just popped into his head, “how do we get home?”

A thin arm abandons its hold around his chest.

“I’m workin’ on it.”

Another crack explodes into the air, startling Liam into digging his spurs into their horse even deeper than before and shooting blindly behind him.

“Work faster!”

“Alright, alright,” Zayn gripes, as if Liam’s request is inconveniencing him rather than saving his life. “Stop movin’ so much. I can’t get a good grip on this here pocket watch with all this bouncin’.”

He’s about to really give it to Zayn, tell him how utterly stupid of a comment that was to make, but he becomes preoccupied with something else.

On the back of the horse’s neck is a tan patch of hairs in the shape of four chevron arrows. He blinks harder to make sure that what he’s seeing is correct, but when he opens his eyes, he’s left staring at sketchwork covered walls.

On his hands are tattoos, no gun in sight.

“All good?”

Liam turns towards the voice and sees Zayn, regular Zayn, even more heavily tattooed than him Zayn, fall back onto the sofa in exhaustion.

“All good?” Liam repeats, seething. The only good he feels is the familiarity of his British accent returning to his speech. “You nearly just got us killed! If it wasn’t for me being responsible and staying sober, we would’ve never been able to see the light of day again. _Our_ light of day.” A peek outside shows that the sun’s yet to rise, but Zayn gets the point.

“When you’re in one of them,” he nods to the open faced book, “you can’t feel pain. You can’t die.”

Tossling his hair and taking a deep breath gives Liam the opportunity to calm down. “What time is it?”

Zayn checks his phone on the wooden trunk. “Three. You wanna take the couch again?”

“No, I’m going home.”

The older male’s eyes cloud with worry, “This late? Are you sure?” Rounds of paper bubble wrap go off when he stands to block Liam’s way to the door. “You’re not mad at me, are you? I would never put you in harm’s way. Trust me, that wasn’t my intention.”

One look at his expression and anyone could see how serious Zayn is; he’s actually quite hurt at the idea of Liam being upset with him. But Liam holds off on granting him relief until he’s sweated some.

“You should’ve told me beforehand that we weren’t able to get hurt,” he says in due time, arms crossed over his chest in accordance with his lingering resentment.

Unfortunately, its intimidation factor falls short. Zayn’s shoulders are falling in relaxation at his brief punishment coming to an end. “You’re right, I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

Liam nods in acknowledgement, taking a final deep breath as he does and then moving on to pick up the book from off the floor. When he closes it, he notes the title, “Shooting Snakes”, before setting it to the side on the trunk.

“Really, you’re welcome to stay,” Zayn insists. “I’ll get you a blanket and pillow.”

Shaking his head, Liam feels around his pockets to make sure he’s got everything. “If I show up in another ‘new shirt’ twice in one week, I would’ve been doing myself a favour by getting us killed.”

“Again, I’m sorry about that.”

“You’re forgiven.” The tiny smile playing on Liam’s lips seems to do its job in convincing the other that he’s sincere and not just saying what he needs to for appeasement's sake. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Or, in a few hours.”

On the walk to the front door, Liam detects Zayn’s unease with himself, like he wants to say something, but can’t find the right words. Even with his hand on the door’s lock he continues to struggle.

“What about my date?”

Liam has to actively restrict his smile from becoming insultingly wide when he hears _that’s_ what the other had found difficulty in voicing. “What about it?”

“When can it happen?”

After all the time Liam had spent in his own head when it came to Zayn, he had to admit, there’s an element of Zayn’s inner conflict that he finds delightfully satisfying.

“Usually I’d be on Horan filming duty, but since he’s taking over this weekend’s morning shifts, my services are being put on hold and replaced with a night of editing. If you’re free later, it can happen then.”

“Don’t take the mick,” Zayn maintains with squinted eyes. “I told you my flirting needs work.”

“Didn’t seem that way with a glass of whiskey in your hand.”

“Do you want a kiss goodbye then?”

Liam stops there, keeping his cool as he steps to the side for Zayn, who’s loosened up considerably, to open the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Ten a.m..”

**Chapter 6**

The secret to creating the perfect V60 is to make sure your timing is precise.

Step one: add 20g of your choice grinds

Step two: add 60g of hot (not boiling) water for 30 seconds

Step three: at the one minute mark, pour another 60g of water; continue until the scale reads 300g

As the last of the hot water is spiraled around the filter, an obnoxious, yet infectious laugh bursts into Liam’s right ear. The sudden noise leads to a splash of water spilling over the cone’s edge, thankfully away from Liam’s body, otherwise he would’ve been exceptionally cross at having attained a burn after having managed to elude one all day.

At his side, Niall’s holding out his camera to show off the reason behind his hysterics. There, on the playback screen is a freeze frame of Liam with curly yellow noodles hanging from his mouth, eyes wide in fright; just being reminded of the memory sets Liam’s mouth ablaze.

“I started going through the footage from last Sunday and mate, you’ve got to let me include the part with you in it. It’s hilarious!

“The Combine-As-Many-Extremely-Hot-Korean-Instant-Noodles-As-You-Can-And-See-How-Much-You-Can-Eat-Without-Water Challenge wasn’t meant to include me,” Liam objects, pulling a linen towel out from one of the nearby drawers and cleaning up his small mess. “Just because I got curious and wanted to try some before you threw it away, doesn’t mean you can exploit my pain.”

“Fine, but I’m keeping the file for myself.” At the sight of Liam’s skeptical glare, Niall backs away theatrically. “As a memory, shit.”

Once he interprets Liam’s lack of a response as being granted permission, the man grins and walks to the cafe’s back room where he’s definitely clocking out for the day. Something Liam _would_ be doing if he weren’t stuck cleaning up his spill and the equipment he’d used to make an experimental cup of coffee in which he mixed this month’s special with a hint of ground cinnamon.

In the front left corner of the shop he sees Zayn, knees tucked up into his chest, a thin magazine in his hands. He doesn’t catch Liam staring at him, not like he had all throughout the morning, but he does when the younger man’s looking out at the shop after pouring his exploratory drink into a checkerboard mug.

They share a glance all their own, until Zayn tilts his head to the right and Liam looks over to see what he’s motioning towards.

“Evelyn,” Liam scolds lightly when his eyes land on an elderly woman dressed in a full gray tracksuit, trying to shove a handful of sugar packets into her purse. A wad of napkins and several straws are sticking out along the zipper’s edge already. She looks up, but doesn’t make a move to put any of her stolen goods back. “I thought I went over this with you already. You can’t take more than what you need from the fixings counter.”

She sticks up her nose with a righteous “how do you know I don’t need all of this?”, and then takes her paper cup off the pick-up counter’s edge. On her way out, Liam meets eyes with Zayn once more, shaking his head at the man’s amusement.

“I’ve been telling her that she can’t do that for months,” he tells him after having finally gotten around to clocking out and informing the afternoon shift manager that they’re running low on brown sugar.

“And for months I’ve been watching her defy you like a rebellious teenager who’s just found her voice,” Zayn replies, smiling widely when Liam chuckles at his comparison. “Good, my jokes are improving. Don’t get full,” he warns as he watches the other take a sip from the black and white mug he sat down with. “I picked out a place for us to go eat.”

At the mention of food, Liam swallows quickly, taking a mental note that his trial was a bust. Cinnamon with this sort of blend doesn’t work well. At least, not as a secondary ingredient add on. Perhaps, if it was roasted _with_ the beans, the cup might be more tasty.

“You did remember we’ve got a date today, right?”

If by remember, Zayn meant thought about it every ten minutes since its conception twelve hours ago, then yeah, Liam might’ve remembered. He also might’ve picked out a black button up to tuck into his dark jeans for work that day in case this date’s timing didn’t allow for him to go back home to change after his shift. Or, maybe the only thought behind the outfit was that he wanted to wear something nicer than a t-shirt under his apron for a change, who knows.

“I wouldn’t go out with me if I’d forgotten that soon,” he teases.

In response, Zayn begins to pack up his things, which, to Liam’s surprise, only consists of the magazine he’s been reading: The Comics Journal, Spring-Summer 2020. He’s just able to make out the main headline in bold before it gets zipped away: Does Original Still Exist? Experts Talk Comic And Graphic Novel Plot Recycling.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Zayn says once they’re both on their feet, his backpack now secured tightly over both shoulders.

His gaze travels down to Liam’s mug and dirtied apron, both of which Liam ditches in the blink of an eye to put a start to whatever the afternoon’s about to bring. But not before having to ignore the humoured look that he gets from Josie when he stops to check his appearance in one of the oven windows that she’s just slid her shift’s last batch of scones in.

Instead of turning down the sidewalk, Zayn guides them across the semi-busy street once it’s safe and heads north. “You look nice,” he says as they step onto a sidewalk lining yet another road crammed with various businesses like the one Early Bird sits on the corner of.

“Thanks.” Liam runs a hand down the front of his shirt, “I just threw it on this morning, no big deal.”

“I like it.”

“Really? It’s pretty plain, not like what you’re wearing.”

They both glance at Zayn’s black skinny jeans that are ripped and have red drops of paint over them, similar to those on his flat’s newspaper flooring, except much more faint. His t-shirt’s not as colourful - white with splotches of black that resemble little Rorschach Tests. There are a few necklaces layered on top of one another, but their ends fall under the shirt’s collar, rendering it impossible for Liam to make out what’s on the end of them.

“I’m not concerned with patterns, or lack thereof,” Zayn divulges. “I like it because you make it look good.”

“Don’t you mean the other way around?”

“No. If you’re really attracted to a person, you’ll see _them_ wearing the clothes, the clothes won’t add any extra beauty.”

“Huh.” As he’s dissecting the thought further, Liam’s brought to an abrupt halt when there are no longer footsteps alongside him. “What’s the matter?”

Zayn tilts his head in the sun, “Do you not realize how handsome you are?” The question’s candor has Liam looking away at the nearest shop window to hide his nervous chuckles. “I know I haven’t been on a date in a while, but don’t tell me that ‘handsome’s’ gone out of style as a compliment…”

“It hasn’t. I’m laughing because…” Bracing himself, Liam sneaks a peek at his side. “The only person who’s ever called me that is my mum.”

“You’re messing with me,” Zayn replies emotionless.

“About _this_?” Liam counters with a modest smile. “Of all things? And to _you_? Of all people?”

A beat passes. Zayn looks down the sidewalk in front of them, then at Liam’s shirt, and again to his face. “Have you ever been to Japan?”

Liam’s smile drops at the random question. “I haven’t even been to Scotland.”

And with that, he’s being turned around by his shirt and yanked back in the direction they’d come.

**Chapter 7**

“Well, this certainly tops any first date I’ve ever been on. And probably ever will.”

Mirrored in a sweeping koi pond is Liam’s wobbly reflection, clean shaven like he’s sixteen all over again. His hair’s grown out to a length like it was when he was at that age too, falling flat past his eyebrows with the ends cut in a choppy, haphazard fashion; a few bits near the back do the opposite and stick outward in an edgy statement.

“So you have been on dates before,” Zayn says as Liam finishes up studying his thick button up that’s changed from black to white, and the red tie that’s fastened around its collar.

Before he stands from his crouching position, he follows a gorgeous orange and white spotted koi fish glide through the water, completely unaware of its own elegance.

The same can be said for Zayn. He’s wearing the same top and grey slacks as Liam, but slung over his right shoulder is a blazer, a prep-school crest embroidered on its breast pocket. With its strands cut much more blunt than Liam’s, his jet black hair rests in soft layers along his forehead, right above the thick frames of his glasses that beg the question: does he wear contacts in the real world?

“I’m almost twenty-seven,” Liam reminds him. “Of course I’ve been on dates before.”

“Your age doesn’t mean anything. Some people get a late start.”

“I wasn’t one of those.” He’s about to step away from the pond’s edge, but Zayn props his foot up on one of silver rocks that surround the body of water and stops him. “I went on a date a few weeks ago, but I definitely didn’t take them to Tokyo.”

“We’re not in Tokyo,” Zayn points out while re-tying the laces of his black Doc Martens that match his purple G-Shock watch. “This is a manga that takes place in Kyoto.”

“Present day?”

“Sure.”

“Zayn…”

The man stands, readjusting his tie so it’s not as tight around his neck. “I wrote it a couple years ago, so relatively speaking, yeah, it's the present day. But during the Spring,” he points up to one of the nearby trees that’s tan branches are covered in delicate, pink flowers. “Cherry Blossom season takes place in early Spring. Relatively.”

Liam’s ashamed to admit that he doesn’t know much of anything about life outside of England or Europe, so he’s never heard of “Cherry Blossom season”, but it’s breathtaking.

In the park around them, down every pathway and around every water feature are trees like the one Zayn’s highlighted. They’re graceful in ways that only specific exotic species are, winding their thin limbs into the air like a master sculptor's taken the time to work them into such refined positions. Some have fully bloomed flowers pinned to them the colour of a flamingo, while others contain lighter ones, like candy floss. The contrast creates a spectacular ombré effect, making it appear as though the park’s not that at all, but an aesthetically pleasing ocean whose waves differ in shades of pink as they lap at an enchanted land that only belongs in fairytales.

“So, you’re a secret romantic?” Liam guesses, minding the way Zayn shrugs in response. “Have you been here before? In real life?”

“I have. I got away for a couple days on a work trip to Tokyo once.”

“If Louis paid for me to go to Central America on a work trip, I think I’d lose it.”

Another round of silence fills the air, and while Liam tries to find the comfort in it, it’s difficult. He can’t shake the feeling he needs to find something to say, even as he’s taking his time observing the neatly trimmed bonsai trees that line the path Zayn’s taking them down, along with the other high school aged students who are wearing the same uniforms they are, crest and all.

“Looks like it’s gonna get dark soon…” He comments.

“About twenty minutes.” Liam nods bleakly. “I can see my conversation skills haven’t improved any in a week,” Zayn adds, breathing relief into Liam’s tense figure.

“You were chatty when we were playing American.”

Zayn chuckles, “That’s because I was drunk. When you spend as much time as I do alone, it’s easy for your communication to become impaired. I’ve always been the quiet one in the family, so it’s an easy thing to overlook when I talk to them. I don’t usually recognize how much it’s taken a hit until I speak to my editor once a month.”

“But you’re never alone,” Liam says confused. “You’re around people at the cafe every day until six.”

“You get off at three,” Zayn smirks, “how do you know what time I leave?”

The question almost stops Liam in his tracks from embarrassment. “Louis mentioned it once,” he mumbles. “A while back.”

Zayn’s smirk stays where it is, but Liam’s just fine with that when it’s clear that the man doesn’t intend on bringing any attention to his terrible lie. “I may go in every day, but I only ever talk to you to get my order at ten and Chris in the afternoon for a refill and bite to eat.” Now that Liam thinks about it, he’s never actually seen Zayn get up from his chair throughout the day except to use the toilet or fill his mug with water from the glass jug that sits next to the fixing counter and is always full for customers to drink as they like. “For around two hundred quid a month I get an office space equipped with free internet, electricity, facilities, and a never ending supply of social interaction to witness, maybe even possibly use as inspiration. I’d lose touch with society if I stayed in my flat to work.”

“What about after six? You don’t talk to anyone after that either?”

Zayn shakes his head indifferently, “Nope. I go home or stop somewhere to eat first, then just continue on working. Sometimes I call my family, but other than that, I stay quiet. Reading, painting, watching shows on my laptop, none of it requires a two-way conversation.”

The concept’s completely foreign to Liam.

He wouldn’t consider himself a busybody, that’s Niall. And he’s not a gossipmonger, that’s Louis. He’s like Josie - friendly enough and adaptable to blend in with most social circles. Currently, he’s one to instigate a whole lot of hangouts, but he’d certainly become that person if he lived a solitary life like Zayn.

“Why do you like it that way?” He asks, knocking shoulders with him when a woman and her pram require more space than is available on their narrow path.

“ _Why_?”

“Yeah, you’re self-employed. As long as your work gets done, you can do whatever you want. So, if you’ve chosen this sort of lifestyle then it must be because you like it.”

“Tell me, who do you talk to regularly? Besides your family and who you work with.” When Liam goes to open his mouth, Zayn’s quick to add, “And I mean talk, not text.”

Even with the extra caveat, Liam’s answer is still just as quick and just as basic. “I call my mate Andy once or twice a week. And there’s this guy that spots me at the gym sometimes, Sean. We hang out after if he’s not busy. But outside of who you’ve excluded, they’re it.”

“Alright, and what do you talk about? With any of them.”

“I don’t know, normal stuff?” Regardless of if he can feel himself being set up or not, Liam’s far too conscious of how his answers come out sounding. “Work, sports, Niall’s Youtube channel, upcoming holidays. Nothing really all that special.”

Zayn points Liam’s way like he’s just fallen into his trap with the magic answer. “Day to day chit chat is nice if you’re an extrovert who can’t go without, but a majority of the time it’s mundane. And even then, it’s a cycle: you see someone, you catch them up on what’s new in your life since you last spoke, then they do the same. Next day, you see a different person and do the same. Day three, same thing. And in between all this you work and do whatever. Then before you know it, another week’s gone by and you’re back to the original person, updating them all over again. And let’s say something happens, let’s say you break your arm. Maybe that makes for a good story, something to break up the weekly roundup, but you’re just gonna have to tell the _same_ story to ten different people over and over and over until eventually, all of them know.

“And look, that’s life, I get it. I’m not saying it’s good or bad. The whole of the world does it every day; everyone would be lost without it. But I’ve got this.” His arms span open like he’s a royal showing off his kingdom. “I can make any conversation I want to happen, happen. Any crazy topic I want to talk about, I can throw into character dialogue. Any job I’ve ever been curious to try, I can center the next plot around and get fulfillment through the weeks of background research it takes to shape the arc and graphics accurately. Any sort of world I want to live in, I can create. And I’m saying that as a writer, as an artist, not as someone who has powers. Without them, I’d still live my life the way I do.”

They continue to walk at a slow pace, rounding a bend that leads towards a greater crowd ahead. Liam sees the mass of people clearly, but his mind’s somewhere else, lost in the picture that Zayn’s just painted of life’s trivial pursuit towards substance. He’d always thought of himself as the reason why a conversation would turn boring; he never had anything riveting going on in his life worth talking about, not even a harmful something like breaking his arm. Could it be possible that the bubble he’s put himself in is so small, that he didn’t have the outreach to even notice that he wasn’t an anomaly, that this is human nature? And if so, if that is the case, then how jealous he is of Zayn discovering this on his own.

“Sounds like you’ve got all the answers,” he gets around to saying.

“Nah, I’ve just figured out a way to bypass the bullshit and still be happy.”

A cheeky smile splits Liam’s face in two, “I hope you know that by showing me how capable you are, I’m not going to accept short responses from you anymore.”

“Fine, but only because I like you.” The cheek easily switches to elation, Liam’s eyes squinting shut in jest. “And that,” Zayn says, now turned towards his date, taking in his crinkly-eyed smile like it’s prettier than any of the pink flowers around them. “I like that a lot.”

“Now it’s my turn to ask a question Mr. Wiseman,” Liam quips, face still smushed even after he hears Zayn’s reply of “shoot”. “How did a quirky brainiac like you end up in _my_ cafe?”

Zayn seems borderline impressed that Liam would claim Early Bird so boldly like that, but the younger man doesn’t bat an eye. Little does he know, Louis always jokes that given Liam’s know-how and loyalty to the shop, he’ll be the one to inherit the cafe when he goes, not his unborn children.

“You do realize it’s in Wolverhampton right?” Liam checks. “Not Birmingham or Coventry or even Worcester.” It might’ve been a stretch to include the latter on the list since it’s so small, but it’s history and picturesque setting make up for its limited population. It’s far superior to Wolverhampton. Outsiders didn’t _choose_ Wolverhampton.

“I’m aware,” Zayn laughs lightly.

“Then enlighten me, because you must know something I don’t.”

In the distance, the image of food stalls begin to take shape. Liam’s mouth starts to water at the heavenly scents of fried food and fresh fish that are wafting their way, but he stays keyed in to Zayn and the nostalgia that’s casting over his face.

“I stayed in Bradford until I was nineteen,” he begins, as if he’s nearing the end of his life and speaking about his childhood is like revisiting a person he wishes he still knew. “My two best friends were killed during a robbery at an off-license. Wrong place, wrong time sort of a thing, ya know? I couldn’t stay in town after that. My family’s there, but I wasn’t ever able to get it to feel like home again. So, I moved. Took my savings from part-time jobs and ended up with a studio in Newcastle. I liked it there, and at my age, I fit in well with the university crowd. It was a real nice change of scenery too, especially the river that cut through the southend. I’d never been that close to water before. I finished my first full-length graphic novel around the time my year lease was up, and ever since, that’s become my routine: finish one piece of work a year, each in a new city.”

“Where’d you go after Newcastle?”

“York,” Zayn answers simply, wistfully. “Then I missed the water and ended up in Blackpool for a year, Liverpool straight after. At one point, I made it all the way down to Cambridge. I don’t like huge cities. My year in Manchester made me realize that. They’re…”

When his pause stretches out for longer than a few seconds, Liam turns away from the group of high school girls ahead of them who are taking their turn sneaking a peek into one of their school bags and giggling at something inside, to watch Zayn do his normal word calculations.

“They’re noisy. And I don’t mean literally, although, that too. I mean the people and their stories. There’s so many of them that it’s far too difficult to wade through all the hollow lives to get to the worthwhile ones. Those that live in smaller, more hometown places are there with good reason. Or bad reason, but even those tend to have a straightforward, no-bullshit rationale for winding up that way. But tiny villages won’t spare you any room to breathe, if you catch my drift.” Liam thinks he does, so he nods. “Mid-level towns like Wolverhampton, they’re perfect. Now that I can afford one, I find a nice one bedroom, fill it with what traveling furniture I have, scout an office, and stake my claim for a year.”

An unignorable pang stitches itself into Liam’s being at hearing the time constraints Zayn lives within. It won’t be long now before his hourglass filled with a year’s worth of sand needs flipping.

“But if you think Birmingham’s got better work spots than _your_ cafe,” Zayn teases, “then maybe I’ll have a look.”

“Hey!” Before Zayn can break down a separate path painted in pink petals that have fallen from the drooping branches flanking its edges, Liam grabs his hand. “Don’t you dare.”

When it’s clear serious consequences will come from his favourite customer swapping coffee shops Liam goes to pull his hand away, but it won’t budge; Zayn’s got a solid hold on it.

Instead, the man readjusts their grip so their fingers slot together easily.

“I would never,” he promises softly.

This time, the quiet that falls over them does so with ease.

More petals drift from their trees to find new homes among the well-manicured grass or immaculately carved out trails. As the night begins to cast its shadow over the park, the flowers don’t appear as bright as before, but that doesn’t take away from their magnificence. Even the trees that are completely bare and have been stripped of the seasonal blossoms altogether are a spectacle for visitors and locals alike.

On an empty bench, the two men enjoy a plethora of skewers from the countless food stalls set up to take advantage of the crowds the flowers have attracted - squid, prawns, panko-fried vegetables, patties of rice. In between them is a small styrofoam cup of katsu sauce for dipping.

“I know you’re the one who’s been to Japan,” Liam prefaces, “but I don’t think everyone there wears uniforms.”

A tiny smile comes to Zayn when he looks to where Liam’s been staring at a pair of teenage boys who are wearing jumpers that share the same crest as the one on Zayn’s blazer that’s folded over the bench’s arm.

“They don’t, you’re right,” he confirms, going back to his food shortly after, “but students do. This plot revolves around two teenage girls who fall in love, but they know their parents won’t approve, so their only safe ground is at school, where they can slide under the radar. Everyone in a uniform is from their high school, us included.”

A deep envy fills Liam’s chest as he switches his stare to a group of girls in skirts and grey knee length socks giggling to themselves after taking a group selfie and checking out the photo.

“I wish I could go back to sixth form and do it all over again,” he reveals longingly.

“Why?” Zayn asks, a glazed squid tentacle sticking out his mouth as he does.

“At that age, it’s like you’re allowed to be naive,” Liam says distantly, “it’s encouraged even. I didn’t take advantage of that. I didn’t try enough new things or fail or just, do _something_ different just do it. I don’t know, I guess, in a way, I feel a bit stunted now. Like, if I would’ve cared to take the first steps in understanding what I want in life back then, maybe by now I’d have it figured out. I thought that your early twenties was when everyone had that ‘aha!’ moment. You know, when things start to come together and you see yourself clearer? But now I see that that’s not the case. Going to university and being in that environment is the key to gaining perspective. Age doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I’m both impressed and offended.” The small grin on Zayn’s face tells Liam that his offense must not be a terrible amount. “Impressed because of the insight. Offended because your theory must mean that I don’t know who I am, when that’s not at all the case.” Liam diverts his line of vision down to his lap in embarrassment at having forgotten he’s not the only one without a degree. “I’ve come across a hell of a lot of older people who don’t know who the fuck they are, so I’ll agree with you that age isn’t the secret, but trust me, it’s certainly not going to university.” He dips another skewed strip of squid into the brown cup. “All it boils down to is experiences.”

It may not be a revolutionary opinion, but that doesn’t stop Liam from ruminating over it while he bites off the last piece of fried okra on the stick in his hand.

“I’ve had a lot of unique experiences working at the cafe for ten years,” he muses.

Zayn rushes to bring a hand up to his mouth so no food falls when he laughs at the statement made. “I don’t doubt that.”

“That’s the confusing part,” Liam says, keeping with his stream of consciousness. “If I’m not unhappy, and I love what I do, then why do I feel like I’m missing out on something? Like I should be more interesting at twenty-six or know what I want from life.”

“You really don’t see half the things I see in you in yourself, do you?”

At first, he’s unsure how to take such a backhanded compliment, but once the initial flattery wears off, Liam embraces the opportunity to gain valuable insight.

“What do you see in me?” He asks openly.

“Well, considering I know you as authentically as a person _can_ know you from being in your presence nearly every day for seven months, I’d say a lot.” Napkin in his hand, Zayn gestures to the man’s attire. “For starters, how incredibly handsome you are. In a stiff black button up or in a uniform that almost every high school romance manga character wears, you stand out.”

There’s no stopping the smile that creeps onto Liam’s face. He can’t help himself with how Zayn looks back at him with the same genuineness that he’s just spoken with. There’s also a small speck of sauce on Zayn’s upper lip that’s evaded the last swipe of cloth. The smile’s there a little bit for that too.

“Same,” Liam replies when he’s finished admiring the masterpiece in front of him. “I mean, I’ve noticed that you’re handsome too.” Right away, he’s shaking his head in disgust at how terribly he’s just ruined the moment, and his confidence. “Don’t suppose charming is a trait of mine you’ve picked out?”

“It’s there,” Zayn assures him, “just a bit buried. Come on.”

After wiping his mouth and tossing their trash into a nearby bin, he offers his hand to Liam and leads them to a path that the rest of the crowd seems to be funneling down.

Being dragged into unintelligible Japanese once again reminds Liam of where they are. It may not be the _real_ Kyoto, but he appreciates it like it is, drifting closer to Zayn out of want rather than congested obligation as they advance down the route that’s just had its foot lamps turned on. He studies the fauna that’s taken on a new level of splendor now that it’s under-lit and enjoys the soothing music that’s weaving through the trees, increasing in volume the further they walk until their final destination becomes clear and Liam has to remind his feet to keep moving.

Past the masses he can make out a pond the size of almost two football fields, a soft halo around its edges from miniature lights placed in between rocks. On the opposite side of the water, nearly hidden by the reach of the willow trees surrounding it there’s a traditional red and white pagoda. It’s magnificent in its architectural prowess, but what’s even more impressive is the way it has the ability to bring instant serenity to anyone who’s lucky enough to lay eyes on it.

Standing out from the crowd, near the water’s edge is the source of the night’s soundtrack: three young female musicians. One holds a wooden clarinet, another an instrument that Liam swears is a two stringed banjo. The third he’s never seen before, though it resembles that of a horizontal harp. It’s like the neck of a guitar as long as he is tall and as wide as his shoulders. Across the slightly curved wood there’s a diagonal line of white triangle pieces that hold up the strings. When the woman plucks around them gracefully, the airy notes it produces are unlike any Western piece of music; any arrangement harmonized by the trio, no orchestra could compare to.

Thanks to his height, Liam’s able to watch them without needing to move any closer from the spot Zayn’s brought them to, only a few yards from the water’s edge. He’s so engrossed in the fluidity of the music that he doesn’t even process Zayn’s hand slipping out from his own until he feels it brush his shoulder. When he turns to learn why, he’s met with a familiar black blazer.

“I could feel you shivering,” Zayn informs him as he holds the jacket open for Liam to slip into.

_I was?_

“It might be a tight fit, you’re a lot broader than I am, but give it a try.”

As Liam sticks each arm in, Zayn helps, wrapping the blazer around his shoulders and leaning away to regard how the material accommodates Liam’s figure; it fits him snugly, no signs of constriction at all. “Perfect,” he grins, nodding feverishly when asked if he’s alright without. “I always run a bit warm.”

Like it’s the last in existence, Liam tugs at the blazer’s lapels possessively. “Thank you. And thanks for bringing me here. I’m never going to forget this.” He tears his eyes away from Zayn’s to address the captivating setting in front of them. “It’s so peaceful. And lovely.”

“Give it another minute and then you’ll see why I made this the setting of the novel’s final scene.”

At the mention of the storybook aspect of where they’re standing, Liam’s curiosity goes into overdrive, as does his impatience, but he subdues both and keeps his eyes on the musicians and flock of white swans that have just made themselves visible in the water beyond.

“Tell me about this date you went on a few weeks ago,” Zayn says easily.

“It wasn’t anything.” Writing the night off that fast based on how it paled in comparison to the one he’s currently having isn’t fair for Liam to do. It really wasn’t that terrible. “I shouldn’t have put it that way,” he backtracks. “It was alright, we went out to dinner and ice cream, but they weren’t as easy to talk to as I initially thought.”

“I shouldn’t hold my breath then.”

Liam turns his head, “You got me to talk about how I feel like my life’s fallen into this weird plateau, you’ve got nothing to worry about. And on top of that, you gave several small speeches tonight.”

“You’re right,” Zayn states proudly. “I did.”

The low ring of lights around the pond go out, stealing both men’s attention, along with everyone else’s. The music hasn’t stopped, rather turned to something slightly more upbeat, but Liam still feels a bit of eeriness settle in the air from the darkness that’s just engulfed the park’s surrounding area. If it weren’t for the crowd buzzing excitedly around him, he’d be slightly spooked. But the feeling’s quickly replaced by awe when one of the most breathtaking sights Liam’s ever seen appears in front of him.

Across the pond, next to the pagoda, the tallest of the weeping cherry trees illuminates. There are several bright lights that are responsible for bringing it to life, but it’s the way that the dark night sky acts as the perfect backdrop, framing the looming tree and accentuating its beauty that leaves Liam speechless.

It’s monstrous, perhaps twenty or thirty meters high, yet with thousands of pink cherry blossoms hanging onto its slackened branches and lit at just the right angle, the tree doesn’t come off as intimidatingly powerful; instead, it’s the opposite. A soft-hued pink cloud, that’s what it looks like in Liam’s eyes.

Then, slowly, one by one, the surrounding trees, pagoda, and other plants are illuminated and transform the park into a fairytale shrouded in various shades of cherry blossom pink.

“Do you like it?”

Zayn’s voice sounds like a whisper, even though Liam knows it’s not, his mind’s just still trying to process what his eyes are seeing. “Yeah,” he breathes, smiling faintly when he feels a single finger hook with one of his in a silent reply of contentment.

In between instruments ending their latest song and beginning their next, Liam looks back to his side and gets caught staring at another worthwhile view, the pink reflection from the light show just barely mixing into its hazel irises.

“I don’t usually like spoilers,” he admits softly, “but will you tell me what happens in the last scene of this book?”

A slow smile creeps onto Zayn’s face, like he’s envisioning it playing out in front of him. And for a second, Liam thinks that it might be, but when Zayn turns his head to meet Liam’s gaze, he doesn’t care to check.

“The two girls have their first kiss.”

Without much warning other than a few seconds where Zayn keeps his smile and stares at Liam’s lips, the two are sharing their own first kiss.

It’s innocent, and incredibly accurate to how he’d acted when the uniform he was wearing said “St. Peter’s Collegiate School”.

Even long after Zayn pulls away, butterflies continue to take over Liam’s entire body, not just his stomach; he thinks their wings might be pink.

**Chapter 8**

For someone who’s been dethroned from his spot as Customer of the Month King, Harry doesn’t act at all bitter towards Early Bird or any of its staff, at least as far as Liam’s morning brigade goes. He’s still one of, if not _the_ first person to put in an order every week day, stopping by to get his morning coffee like he’s in tune with the sunrise before heading down the road to meet his suppliers at the florist shop he works at to arrange what they bring him - displays which never fail to look outstanding. They’re so aesthetically pleasing that on more than one occasion Liam’s found himself nearly walking in and buying something simply because he was captured by their charm, not because he actually needed a rustic metal water canister overflowing with golden chrysanthemums to put in his windowsill.

It’s been twenty minutes since the cafe’s weekly Monday morning staff meeting has adjourned and ten since Harry arrived with his squeaky wagon, ready to swap out last week’s sunflowers for bundles of snowy white gardenias. After he’s through replacing the ribbed glass vases with thin eggshell ceramic ones, he tugs the worn out Red Flyer around the shop to inspect the permanent greenery he’s provided, checking to make sure each has enough water and sprinkling in packets of soil enrichment where necessary. Today, like every other Monday, Louis drags his feet along Harry’s path, slightly more alert thanks to Liam’s brew, but still very much disgruntled that he’s been forced awake before nine. When he slips outside to take a phone call and light a cigarette, Liam yields the small window of opportunity.

“One shot of espresso over ice.”

He hands Harry a short glass, the same as those that are stacked near the water jug, its temperature in the beginning stages of turning a neutral warm as the heat from the espresso begins to wane from the ice’s chill.

“Thanks,” Harry smiles widely, wasting no time in taking his first sip.

Right about now’s when Liam usually turns on his heels and goes back to helping the other two prep for the day. Since he and Harry never really make it any further than those two lines, he can tell the other’s unclear on what to say or do when Liam stays standing in his spot.

“I was just wondering,” Liam finally says, hoping that the awkwardness will go away now that he’s getting around to his point, “have you ever heard of cherry blossoms?”

Harry’s eyebrows rise in shock at hearing that _flowers_ are the reason for Liam's hovering. “I am a florist, you know,” he replies with a smirk.

“I know,” Liam agrees hastily, “I know, dumb question.”

“Why are you asking?”

Over his shoulder Liam checks to make sure that Louis and the others in the shop are out of earshot, pleased to see that the former’s still pacing on the front sidewalk and Niall and Josie are preoccupied with setting out pastries and grinding up the day’s beans.

“I uh, saw some for the first time on Friday night and thought they were really nice,” he reveals. “Would it be possible to bring us some? For the tables?”

“You saw them?” Liam nods. “In person?”

Unexpected anxiousness starts to build at Harry’s accusatory tone, which in itself is worrying. He’s always the opposite - engaging in conversation with good spirits.

“Yes?” Liam replies, now unsure of is own answer.

“It’s July,” Harry states bluntly. “Cherry blossoms only bloom in the spring. Are you sure they weren’t orchids? When couples request cherry blossoms for their wedding out of season I always suggest orchids instead. The pink ones look almost identical.”

“Then again, what do I know about flowers? You _are_ the florist,” Liam says a tad too eager at having been handed an excuse to his clumsy slip up. “I only work at a coffee shop. They were probably orchids, I must’ve looked up the wrong thing.”

Hearing that Liam’s eyes can be to blame for the false labeling, Harry relaxes into himself. “An honest mistake. You want them for all of the tables?” To Liam’s “please”, he nods. “I’ll put in the order when I get to the shop so I can have them for next week.”

On his walk back to the counter, Liam’s got a pep in his step, thrilled at how quick the turnaround is; he’d fully expected having to wait upwards of a month. And the thing is, he would’ve. All weekend his mind was preoccupied on Zayn and Kyoto, the intoxicating feeling of their hands intertwined all night and the rush of kissing him back in his flat after they strolled around the park for the remainder of their hour visit. But prior to that, after the crowd dispersed from in front of the pond spectacle, he’d managed to learn a lot more about Zayn.

Like how he nearly failed out of nursery for refusing to colour in the lines (“the definition of art is freedom. How dare they subject me to that!”) and how his frequent napping began overtaking a normal person’s eight hour nightly sleep schedule immediately after his mates died (“it gave me severe insomnia. Rather than gradually overcoming it one hour at a time, my body stayed with the constant kips.”). What a horrendous curse to be given. And for it to have originated from your best friends dying, as well. There’s no way Zayn isn’t constantly reminded of the two every time he blinks himself awake to a bustling coffee shop after a short fifteen minute snooze. Now that Liam thinks about it, what’s even the point of renting a one bedroom flat if you don’t need a place to put a bed?

As he comes out of the backroom later that afternoon, he automatically looks to the cafe’s front left corner and comes up with a different question: How can Zayn fall asleep so often and still look that good?

By the time Liam’s pulling up a chair in front of him, he’s through wiping his eyes, neither of which have dark circles under them. His face is void of any puffiness, and he blinks back to focus like his past twenty minute slumber never existed. Liam’s never been so jealous.

“You look stressed,” Zayn notes.

“Can we rewind back to this morning when you told me I looked great?”

“Sorry,” he says sympathetically.

For the third or fourth time since Zayn came in that morning, Liam replays the moment in his head when the older male’s greeting took him by surprise. After not seeing him since leaving his flat on Saturday at the early hour of four, Liam had at least expected a small “hi” to precede any flirting. Thank god he’d briefed his co-workers on the date in their group chat before then, because he would’ve gotten an earful after. Especially by Louis, who decided to stick around until ten just to see how Liam would interact with his “mysterious tattoo lad” post-first date. Although, with the way he tossed the rag he was using to “clean” the counter next to Liam after Zayn had been rung up, it’s obvious Louis regretted not taking off at around nine on Staff Meeting Monday like he usually did. Besides the short pause Liam took to process the compliment he was handed, there were no wildly embarrassing moments for Louis to witness. Not even the shy “thanks, you too” Zayn got as a response was tease-worthy.

“What gave it away?” Liam asks, glancing down at his clothing when Zayn motions to his body, slouched so far down that he’s nearly falling out of his chair. While readjusting his posture he mutters, “I hate my job.”

“How long was I asleep?” Zayn responds sarcastically.

“I love coffee, but I hate being terrible at maths. After three hours, I finally finished filling out supply sheets and balancing the ledger.” Peeved at the memory, Liam crosses his arms over his chest tightly. “Why does a manager have to deal with numbers? Why can’t I just make coffee all day?”

“Because then you wouldn’t be a manager, you’d just be a barista.”

“Why can’t I just make coffee, keep the customers happy, and maintain a good workflow all day?”

“Because then you’d just be a really attentive barista.” Liam’s aggressive glare puts an unamusing end to Zayn’s game. “Not everyone’s textbook smart. You’re clever in other ways.”

“Yeah, sure.” Desperate to steer the conversation away from his failing algebra skills, Liam nods to the laptop that’s partially closed on Zayn’s side table. “What’re you working on?”

“My new storyline.” Liam’s face lights up, but is quickly shot down when Zayn shakes his head. “I guarantee it’s nothing like you’re making it out to be in your mind. This is the torturous part of writing.” He picks up his laptop and turns it, revealing a wordy document that Liam leans forward to get a better look at. “Have you ever seen a screenplay?”

Liam’s head shake earns him a short lecture on how graphic novels are shaped from detailed scripts similar to a film’s, just with much more detailed scene introductions.

It’s the most Liam’s ever heard him speak at once. He doesn’t leave an ounce of space for Liam to say anything other than “yes” or “no” when asked if he understands what’s just been explained. Like how a screenwriter might put inflection notes for an actor in parentheses below the character’s name and above their dialogue, but he uses the space for writing in if a character’s words will be said out loud or in their head, something that affects how the speech bubble will look.

“Depending on the aesthetic of the particular story, I might also differentiate thoughts by putting them in italics, so I’ve gotta note it for that too.”

Some of it’s so technical that it goes over Liam’s head, but he gets the gist and is glad he does because it’s one thing for him to take interest in Zayn’s life, but it’s another to be able to interact with it.

“I’m only one man, but planning and putting all of this together takes the brainpower of ten,” Zayn explains. “More often than not, the only thing I start with is a world I want to create, no real storyline. It’s painful having to actually make something out of the simple wish, ‘I want to write a mystery’ and nothing else. Really, really painful. But,” he takes a deep breath, “once you put in the work to block out the scenes and move them around so they make sense, then it’s smooth sailing.”

“Well, you look like you’re making good progress.”

“Oh no, this is my last novel. I liked the way I wrote a specific scene, so I was just using it as reference. _This_ is the mystery in progress.”

The laptop’s turned back around for more precise clicking, but when it’s available for Liam to view again, he doesn’t recognize a thing.

There isn’t just one program open, there are several, and two of them aren’t even writing based. The one that is looks like a standard writing software, not the screenwriting that Liam was just debriefed on and takes up the entire left half of the screen. It’s made up of bullet points, one handful separated from another by darker indented points that contain the setting, similar to the way each scene is introduced in script format, just a lot more informal. The first reads: Two Days Later - Timothy’s House (10-12 panel split). The bullet points underneath are a mix of fragmented thoughts and actions outlining what’s to happen in that particular scene. “Jennifer looks through the cabinets, can’t find anything - frustrated”. Next, “she fidgets when angry; add action lines at fists”. Then, “conversation about possible classmate clue”. Followed by: “Ralph not sure about validity”, “Butler comes in with tea?”, “agree that Timothy will explore records, but only if he can get a meal beforehand (FOOD POINT 3)”, and “point of sarcasm for Timothy - proud smirk about dress”. The next dark, left-justified point’s labeled “After Lunch - Reading Room in Records Office (4-6 panel split)”. Three lengthy, yet still incomplete thoughts are bulleted underneath.

The right side of the screen is divided between image search results for “Victorian Era British Courthouse” and another window that’s slightly taller than the browser and full of sketches that look like they were drawn in a haste. There are outlines of people and buildings, though their erratic lines are very basic, just enough for Liam to be able to tell what they are. Some have arrows pointing to certain parts, while others have chicken scratch writing next to them as though the person jotting them down needed to do so at lightning speed before they disappeared from their conscience.

“I know it might not look like it to you,” Zayn says like he knows what Liam’s thinking, “but it makes sense to me.”

“That’s a relief.”

The older male laughs lightly at the way Liam’s words reflect in his newly relaxed body language. “This is my source of agony.” He points to the left side of the screen decorated in bullet points. “I don’t care what people say, outlining a story is _not_ fun.”

“It’s not?”

“No, I’d rather have all my teeth pulled.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Literally,” Zayn mumbles, waving for Liam’s creativity to join them. “Here, give me one subject a story can be about. As simple as can be, doesn’t matter.”

“Um…” Being put on the spot like this isn’t Liam’s favourite place to be, but he’s in luck. One look out the front window and he’s found his ticket to freedom. “Someone training for a bike race.”

“Perfect! So in the beginning we learn about this person’s ambitions and at the end they win or lose, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Zayn smiles arrogantly as he says, “Now tell me what happens in between.”

A bright spurt of laughter follows Liam’s silence and the lost expression he knows his face has contorted into.

“Exactly,” Zayn instills. “Daunting, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve really gotta love the original subject you come up with because giving it life is unimaginably difficult. You have to build a skeleton first, which is what this is. I piece together the story scene by scene, making them up as I go. This way I can see what the whole thing looks like - no pun intended - before I start writing or drawing. And if I come up with little character mannerisms towards the end, I have the liberty to skim through my map, if you will, and find places to sprinkle them in. Without this barebones layout to comb through, there’d be all sorts of plot holes. That, or the pacing would be off, and with graphic novels it’s all about the pacing.”

He pauses, then points to the top right window with the sketches. “These are just storyboard notes that I make about the graphics. I don’t focus too much on them at this stage, but if something comes to me and I don’t want to lose it or I just want to test something out on the spot, then I do it here.” With the touch of his pointer finger and thumb against the screen, he expands the window, then pulls out a stylus pen from between his side and the seat cushion. The next thing Liam knows, he’s jolting in surprise at the keyboard being collapsed to make the screen a tablet and the pen scribbling waves on the bottom of the window’s white space. “The other screen is reserved for looking up researching authenticity stuff that I know nothing about.”

As Zayn leans away from the screen, so does Liam, unaware that listening to the other’s methodology would make him feel secondhand stressed. Which is why he’s only half-kidding when he says, “Sounds like you need another flat white.” And is in awe that someone working a job with such intellectual demands could still produce such a stunningly calm smile.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Zayn replies simply.

And just like that, Liam's out of his seat with the man’s mug (one from some beer museum in German), headed up to the counter and squeezing past Josie at the register to join Niall for a brief foxtrot. When he’s back in front of Zayn, handing over the piping hot refill with a short “that’ll take the edge off”, he receives another gracious smile.

“No,” Zayn protests, setting the mug on his side table, “seeing you is what takes the edge off. This’ll just make it so that I’m sharp enough to power through the misery at a quick pace.”

As if on schedule, Liam’s blush has him looking away. This time, down at his watch. “I leave in about an hour. Do you want to get a late lunch after? If what you said is true, I’d guess a _meal_ with me could, I don’t know, maybe loosen you up enough to last until tomorrow.”

“Do you know what else it could do?” Liam keeps his lips shut, sensing the question to be rhetorical. “Distract me. In case you didn't know, you’re quite good at that.”

Again, the time needs checking.

“If I take any time to myself in this phase of putting together a new book, I’ll risk derailing my train of thought and prolong the anguish,” Zayn goes on to explain. “I’ll let you take me out when I’m finished, I promise. It’ll be my motivation. Shouldn’t take any longer than a few days.”

**Chapter 9**

A few days turns into eight, and somehow they’ve felt insufferably longer than the seven months it took Liam to make his move in the first place.

He’s continued to serve Zayn his ten o’clock flat white just like the older man’s continued to sporadically nap and grant Liam a few minutes of conversation whenever appropriate. But once the weekend came around, Liam felt more lost than ever. An emotion he didn’t expect to feel considering he’s spent _every_ weekend over the past year as a single man. Sleeping in, going for a run, playing around with his aeropress, third wheeling in the evening. He’s become well acquainted with that rotation and its inability to upset. Until now, when it’s driven him to arrive earlier for the Monday morning staff meeting than he has in years, ready to be swallowed in the hecticness that comes with managing one of the city’s premiere coffee shops. But not before taking his time appreciating the wagon of pink in Harry’s shadow.

Upon first glance, the orchid arrangements look identical to cherry blossoms. So much so, that Liam has to double check with Harry that he hadn’t somehow found a way to forage the seasonal flower in the middle of summer. And he wasn’t the only one.

“Are these cherry blossoms?” Zayn asks of the arrangement on his side table sometime around ten, when Liam’s bringing him over his flat white in a Doncaster Rovers mug.

“Orchids. I was about three months too late for the real things.”

Zayn’s instant, face-splitting, bridge-of-the-nose-scrunching smile, blew any reaction that Liam had thought up as a possibility out of the water. And the fact that it’s still just as bright when he takes his corner seat the next day with a mug from Trinity College gives Liam the strength he needs to stick out waiting for their second date a bit longer. If only the smile worked on easing the pain of financial breakdowns.

“You alright?” Zayn checks, taking a break from pulling his own hair out to accept his afternoon refill that’s being handed over.

“Frustrated.” Liam shoves his hands in his apron pocket, “We’ve got to order next month’s special roast by the end of the week for there to be enough leeway with the shipping and I’ve done just about everything other than take a pen to my eye from staring at numbers for the entire day, trying to get them to make sense. I’ve been doing this for years, it should be a walk in the park by now.”

“What’d I say before? You’ve got other skills that are more valuable than calculation.” Without warning, Zayn’s tired eyes spark with an idea. “What are your plans for tonight?”

“Anything other than maths,” Liam gripes.

“Good, then you can come over to mine for dinner.”

Liam looks down at the laptop out on display, his hopes rising at double their normal speed, “Have you finished?”

“No, but I owe you a second date.” Zayn’s tone switches to one of shame, “I owed you one about five days ago.”

But Liam doesn’t care about the extension, he’s too giddy at the prospect of it being over. “Well, technically I was the one who wanted to take you out.”

“Then dinner at your place. I’ll bring the drinks.”

In a matter of seconds Liam turns from excited to horrified. He’d come over to get his daily hit of dopamine from hearing Zayn compliment his brewing skills, not agree to cook an impromptu meal for two.

“Great,” he replies, trying to sound as confident as possible. “I’ll um, write down my address for you when I get the chance.”

Before he somehow winds up hosting a full on dinner party, Liam turns around and goes back to the counter.

“What’s wrong?” Niall asks, the smile playing on his lips a sign that he’s ready to be entertained at Liam’s expense. “Why do you look as though Zayn just told you to watch your back?”

Like a zombie, Liam occupies himself at the sink, “What does someone cook for an at-home dinner date if they’ve only got five hours?”

Niall’s smile morphs into a smirk when the pieces click together. After reading Josie’s latest ticket, he goes to work. “That’s easy, pasta. You boil the water, throw it in, strain it. If he likes things spicy, you buy an arrabbiata sauce. If he likes things sweet, you buy a penne sauce. If you wanna get fancy, buy a red and white sauce mix. They never see that one coming.”

Liam looks up from where his hands are sudsed with five times more soap than necessary. “So you don’t think I should make the sauce from scratch?”

“Yeah, sure, if you want to chance perfection.”

Now that there’s no one in line, Josie leans her hip into the counter and puts in her own thoughts. “Even if it doesn’t turn out flawless, it’s the thought that counts. He’ll appreciate the effort.”

“Effort or accidental poisoning,” Niall tells Liam under his breath so he doesn’t risk hurting the woman he’s infatuated with’s feelings.

Both arguments stay with Liam well after work, and are continually repeated while he stands in front of the pasta sauce aisle at Tesco’s like each of his friends are sitting on his shoulder, trying to convince him that their way is the right way. They don’t stop when he buys a jar of pesto _and_ ingredients for an easy marinara that Google found him on the bus ride over, nor when he’s staring at his kitchen counter covered in groceries. In the end, he has to flip a coin and force himself to commit to its result of heads, aka roll up your sleeves, you’re getting dirty.

He’s practically holding his breath when he tastes it for the first time, fully ready to throw it down the garbage disposal and heat up the pesto sauce in the microwave, but there’s no need; it’s not half bad. It doesn’t taste of dessert like he thought it might when the instructions called for him to sprinkle in sugar. And because it’s kept its savory profile, he doesn’t really care to question where the sugar went either. So long as Zayn likes it, that’s all that matters.

“This is really good,” the man says after his first bite, not hesitating to go in for his second straight away.

From then on, Liam vows to never doubt Josie’s advice ever again.

It’s easier to breathe after hearing he hasn’t royally mucked up the night’s main event, as well as enjoy the wine Zayn brought that’s on the end of the table they’re sitting at in one of Liam’s living room corners. It’s plain, like the rest of the space, only really a piece of wood screwed into four dowels, but it gets the job done and doesn’t collapse when he brings his fist down on it in a reenactment of his sister throwing a fit over not being able to go to sleep away camp in Switzerland with her rich best friend when they were younger.

They take turns talking about things like that, about anything other than their work since it doesn’t take a genius to be able to figure out that Zayn could use the break. And while he loves being able to exercise his outgoing tendencies at the cafe, Liam himself enjoys being able to come home to a quiet flat where he can relax without the buzz of constant background noise or worry that his every move is on display for all to see. He wasn’t even fully alone checking stock in the back room, the security cameras planted in the upper corners made sure of that.

When Zayn cleans his plate, Liam pauses his story about how he acquired an irrational fear of spoons in early primary school after undergoing a brutal punishment that consisted of having to wash the cafeteria’s dishes for a week (he could never fully get rid of the image of spoons with caked on gravy and bits of noodles from his memory after that) to ask if he’d like seconds. Instead of a response, he gets a shy smile and plate handed his way.

As he dishes out another healthy serving of food, Liam feels oddly like a Mother, pleased that their child - the one that’s got a body that more than likely requires an extra small in clothing - is willing to eat more. Seeing as though it’s food made by his hand, it helps boost Liam’s ego a little bit too, but ever since Louis told him that the man’s been staying until closing for the past week, rather than leaving at his usual time of six, he’s been slightly worried about Zayn’s health. Especially with Early Bird’s dinner options being limited to pretty much whatever bagel is left hardening in the display case.

“He’s got lucky a couple times,” Louis told him during a dinner at his place a few days ago. “Once, I heated him up a panini and another time I saved him a chicken and arugula sandwich. But other than that, he’s been living off our scraps. I’ve just been going under the assumption he eats something better when he gets home.”

Now, Liam’s not so sure that’s been the case. Not with the way he appears to take his time enjoying the pasta and trifle that Liam brings out for dessert afterwards (he might’ve gone with Niall’s advice and cheated with the pudding).

“I’m so full, I could probably sleep through the night,” Zayn says with a strained voice, leaning back in his chair and holding his stomach like he’s about to give birth.

When Zayn had practically invited himself over earlier, Liam didn’t really know what to expect. He didn’t have time to come up with answers, all he could spare was a shower after his return from the shop and a clothing swap into fitted black trousers and a tucked in navy t-shirt; add on a sporty white bomber and viola. What he did know is that it wouldn’t be wise to get his hopes up on the night going any farther than dinner for this reason exactly - Zayn cutting it short for a nap.

“Why don’t you?” Liam questions. “It’d be good for your productivity, wouldn’t it?”

The concept didn’t seem too far fetched in his head, so he’s not entirely sure why he’s being smiled at like he’s some sort of naive child who doesn’t understand how many obstacles are in the way of his solution becoming a reality.

“I was only dreaming out loud,” Zayn says easily.

“Oh.”

It’s then that Liam wishes he hadn’t left his watch on top of the microwave to stay safe while he cooked.

“I know you only came over to eat,” he continues, “but I wouldn’t mind if you stayed and worked from here. I can clear all this off, you wouldn’t even have to move.”

Before Zayn can agree, Liam starts gathering dishes and utensils, only stopping when a gentle hand overlaps his own.

“Let me,” Zayn offers. “What sort of date would I be if I made you cook _and_ clean?”

All Liam can bring himself to do is bow his head stubbornly and stop adding any more cutlery into their half-full bowl of salad mix. In the kitchen, he takes what plates are in Zayn’s grasp and watches as he puts the bottle of red wine into the fridge. It’s only a little more than halfway empty, mostly thanks to Liam, which had surprised him given how open Zayn was to alcohol during their western adventure. He’d been half-tempted to goad the older man into drinking more just to see if he could convince him to put on a Southern American accent again, but he had been too enamored by the way Zayn spoke about his time early on as an artist experimenting with charcoal, always getting asked why he got so many black eyes and how they never swelled, only bruised a rich black, to bother with such a trivial request.

“So, you’ll stay?” He asks when Zayn returns to the kitchen with their glasses and a decorative serving tray that now holds half a loaf of garlic bread.

“I will.”

Turning his squished eyes away from Zayn’s view to where he’s got multiple coffee instruments lined against the counter’s backsplash, Liam runs through his mental recipe book for the ideal drink to match the mood.

“You go make yourself comfortable and I’ll brew us some coffee. Well,” he frowns to himself, “I’ll make _you_ a cup of coffee. I’ll make myself tea. Any more caffeine than that at this hour and I’ll be awake until dawn alongside you.”

But Zayn doesn’t leave, he leans his body up against the counter casually instead, while Liam pulls down a box of tea from one of the overhead cabinets. “What are you gonna do while I work?”

“You don’t happen to have any reading material in your bag, do you? Like one of them magazines or maybe one of your books even?”

Again with the naive smile.

The two of them, sitting quietly, both involved in Zayn's world, made for an intimate gesture, no?

“I’ve got both,” Zayn says enticingly, “but would you be opposed to helping me instead?”

“With your work?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Two fingers motion for him to follow.

Back in the living room, Zayn takes out a black sketchbook from his bag, not his laptop like Liam presumed. On the page Zayn opens to there’s a black and white pencil sketch of what looks to be a rough draft cover of the mystery he’s been painstakingly outlining. Liam can tell by how the middle aged man who’s taking up most of the right third of the page is drawn: wearing a three piece suit with the tail of the jacket long like a tuxedo, carrying a leather binder monogrammed with the letters “TRC” in one hand, and the ever-telling, stereotypical magnifying glass in the other.

Behind him, in the zoomed out foreground, there’s a row of Victorian style homes, pristine with their bay windows amid brick bonding and chimneys poking out of slate roofs. A young lady is tiptoeing out of the middle one, an expression of concern on her face, like she’s worried she might be caught sneaking out. Little does she know, the detective’s looking over his shoulder, watching her every move.

“You started drawing already…”

“Just the cover,” Zayn replies, flipping the next page to prove his point. It’s blank, as are the rest in the hardcover book. “I’m nearly done laying out the whole thing, but I can’t quite get the ending right. I think what I need is a fresh pair of eyes and perspective.”

Liam thought he made it explicitly clear that he doesn't have any experience in storytelling, but Zayn’s kissing his temple from the side and grabbing his hand, asking him if he’s ready, and the excited fluttering in his chest eliminates any preliminary warnings he was about to give. Instead, he nods, preparing himself for what lies ahead.

At first, it’s nothing to be shocked by. The street that he and Zayn appear on is the same as the one on the cover, and although it’s dated in its architecture, many areas of Britain today have held their history well, so Liam’s not all that out of place. Minus their clothing.

As they walk down the sidewalk, Liam begs for Zayn to let them stop somewhere he can examine his ensemble. Zayn’s got on a brown tweed suit, complete with a matching deerstalker cap, and while Liam isn’t blinded to the early twentieth century jacket and tailored grey suit under the long raincoat he’s wearing, he wants to see how he looks altogether, forward facing. It’s not fair that they’re a proper pair straight out of some Sherlock Holmes spinoff and he can’t check himself out.

“Please Zayn,” he whines lightly. “I’ll be quick. Let’s just pop into one of these houses and use a mirror. It won’t take more than a few seconds.”

“Fine.”

For how strong of a fight Zayn had put up over the past few minutes, Liam’s taken aback by how quickly he gives in without any conditions, not that he’s complaining. He’s nothing but grateful, hopping up the front steps of a house with a stained glass window in its front door and staying right on Zayn’s heels as they step foot inside. However, as soon as he spots a full-length mirror in the entryway, he forgets all about the other.

His suit’s even more impressive than he thought. It’s a three piece and immaculately stitched. His tie knot looks fake, it's so pristine and he too is wearing a short billed cap like Zayn. With small-heeled leather dress shoes, he looks worlds smarter than he actually is. The outfit has him grinning wildly, but he quickly swaps that out for an overly serious expression to fit the look, wishing that he had his phone to take a picture.

But the moment’s short lived. He’s brought out of his game of dress up when his name’s called from another room, the eerie quietness of the two-story home causing it to echo ever so much.

As he follows the voice further into the house, ignoring the innate staircase and only checking out the ostentatiously decorated parlor room and kitchen in short, it occurs to Liam that his persistence wasn’t what got them into this house. Zayn was planning on taking them here all along.

The closer he gets to the back two doorways, the clearer he can make out the sound of shuffling papers. When he realizes it’s coming from the room on the right, he turns, only to be stopped in his tracks.

“Li-” His name dies on Zayn’s tongue once he sees the man’s hovering figure. “Good, there you are. Come on, you know we can’t stay in here for longer than an hour. And with your dallying, that’ll be over by the time I get done catching you up to speed.”

_I’m gonna need a lot longer than an hour._

The room’s an office of sorts. Towards the back, there’s a massive oak desk, stained so heavily that the wood’s practically black, not brown. The same can be said for the rest of the furniture - bookcases, chairs, side tables, a couple of credenzas. It’s all so dated, and in such grand condition that it looks more like a recreation in a museum than a real room in a real person’s home. Then again, it’s not real, Liam’s got to remind himself of that.

But it’s not the old-fashion design that has him making his way into the room at such a hesitant pace, one foot slowly in front of the other. It’s the back wall, covered in photos and newspaper clippings, scrap pieces of paper with written notes scribbled on them and name tags, all connected together by a neat timeline that runs along the length of the wall horizontally, that has Liam petrified.

Here he is, brought to this world in the hopes that he can aid in Zayn’s creative process, and all it took was for Liam to set his eyes on the clues laid out in front of him to know that the only thing he’s going to be is a letdown. He didn’t have to read the hundreds of details pinned up like a collage, filling up the wall so heavily that one couldn’t make out the wallpaper underneath them, to know that solving a mystery like this is out of his scope. He’s honored that Zayn would think so highly of him to believe that he’d be of any use in this alternate universe, but Liam knows better than to think he’s anything other than over his head. Way, _way_ over his head. And now, worst of all, he has to let Zayn down by telling him that.

“I meant what I said Liam, hurry up,” Zayn says impatiently, pulling out a pocket watch that’s hooked onto the inside of his breast pocket via a gold polished chain. “We’ll need to factor travel time into the hour as well.”

Once he’s reached Zayn’s side, Liam braces himself for the falling out that could come from the news he’s about to break. But he doesn’t get any farther than “look, Zayn” before a hand is slapped over his mouth. Only when Zayn is sure he won’t start talking again does he pull it away.

“The story starts with the reopening of a cold case about a missing teen girl...”

As Zayn moves through the wall’s timeline from left to right like he’s a lecturer working through a Stephen Hawking length equation, Liam quickly recognizes that if he doesn’t push down his nagging anxiety and gather all of his focus at once, he stands zero chance at being even a fraction as useful as Zayn so foolishly believes he can be.

From his seat in the desk’s leather chair, he learns that it took a week for the girl’s, Margaret’s, parents to report her missing and that the case went cold very early on. Despite the police believing the parents were to blame (as did much of the public), they were never able to unearth enough evidence to convict either of a crime. Now, the story’s main detective, Timothy Chapman, is ready to do the necessary legwork and see if, after thirty years, he’ll be able to find such proof. Or better yet, find Margaret altogether.

With both parents now deceased themselves, it’s clear that the person who would have the most information and should be re-questioned is Margaret’s younger brother Francis, now forty-one. According to Zayn, his story matches the one Timothy had read in the old police reports, but with no signs of the man acting out of character, Timothy was forced to move on and revisit Margaret’s school records to check her attendance for the week she went missing — accounted for on a Tuesday afternoon, then never on record to attend again.

Timothy’s talked to her friends, several of which Zayn profiles, but there’s only one who gives any details worth getting excited about, Elsie. She claims to have been the closest to Margaret and because of that, often found herself listening to her friend vent on a Friday night about how much she hated living under the same roof as people who could be so harsh with their words and fists. How she despised the violence, and if any of it was ever directed her way, she wouldn’t hesitate to fight back. However, unlike one of the next door neighbors who was interviewed by police, Elsie never claims to have seen or heard from Margaret after school that fateful Tuesday afternoon; it’s haunted her too, never knowing what’s happened to her childhood best friend all of these years.

Because of the conflicting testimonies of neighbor and best friend, Timothy has looked into the former’s original statement heavily. He’s found first hand reports of Margaret being seen going in and out of the house several days after her school claimed she stopped coming. Each time, she was seen leaving the house straight after a fight that “could be heard for miles around”, and each time, this neighbor swore she saw Margaret battered and bruised. Unfortunately, a quick check in with this witness in the present day and Timothy’s learned that this statement - the one so undeniably crucial to the police’s chronology - could not be trusted; at the time, the woman was just beginning to embark on a long and treacherous journey of losing her sight.

“What about the other neighbors? What’d they say they saw?”

Zayn smiles wickedly like Liam’s hit the nail on the head.

“That’s just it. There’s one remaining neighbor who’s alive and well. Old, but well. She knows what happened, but she’s stubborn. I’ve written her to be extraordinarily tight lipped, so I’ve got no idea how to get her to spill. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?” Liam exclaims wide-eyed as he stands up the second Zayn’s ditching the wall of evidence and walking out of the room.

“Yes, now come along. It’s not a short walk and we’ve got-” He takes a small pause to consult his pocket watch, “About thirty minutes before you need to get back in time to take a nap and get ready for work.”

Like always, Liam follows hastily, but he nearly scratches his head when they stop in front of a skinny townhome on the other side of the city fifteen minutes later.

“What do I say?” He asks nervously, staring up at the house as if it’s haunted.

“If I knew, would we be here?” Zayn chides. “Now, her name’s Edith Green. When you tell her you’re here on legal business, she’ll have no choice but to invite you into her sitting room. I’ll stand on the grass, just outside the room’s window. That way-”

“You’re not coming with me?” Liam’s eyes snap to Zayn’s, even more worry swimming in them than when he’d first seen the mystery laid out in maze form.

“No,” Zayn dismisses swiftly. “She’ll be too overwhelmed, I’m sure of it. I’ll be right outside, listening in to all the details. When it’s getting close to time, I’ll send you a signal.”

“What kind of signal?”

“I don’t know. A signal,” Zayn says, edging on annoyed. “You’ll recognize it.”

But Liam’s not so convinced. “Are you sure? Can’t we just come up with-”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Zayn snaps, the closest thing to angry Liam’s ever seen him. “Now go, you’re wasting precious time.”

After getting shoved towards the short stoop, he looks back once more at Zayn for some sort of last minute confidence boost, but it’s no use, he’s already moved on to slinking in between the gap made by Edith Green’s house and the one to its right.

So he can’t talk himself out of it, Liam knocks on the door the second he’s within reach to do so. The wait proves to be the nerve wracking part however, and as he’s standing there, praying that all goes well and he can make Zayn proud, he tries to figure out what to do with his hands. His first instinct is to stick them in his jacket’s front pocket, yet as soon as he does, he feels something protrude from the clothing’s inner lining and pulls them back out. In the interior pocket is a leather twofold that’s responsible for holding an identification card and detective badge.

“Can I help you?”

A woman in her mid-seventies stands in the doorway, barely coming up to Liam’s pectorals. She has short, grey hair that curls around her ears and a body that’s stout. Liam’s taking in her white, matronly dress that practically touches the wooden floorboards of the home when he realizes he’s staring and that if he doesn’t wish to have the door slammed in his face, he should say something.

“Yes, hi. I’m looking for a Mrs. Green?”

The woman narrows her eyes surrounded in wrinkles, “Who’s asking?”

“My name’s Liam. Liam Payne,” he replies clearly, giving her his best smile to show he means no harm. In his right palm he’s still holding onto his badge, but he keeps it at his side; unless it’s necessary, there’s no need to go flashing it about. “I’m working on an investigation and I was hoping I’d be able to ask you a few questions about it if that’s alright?”

From that comes a once over so disapproving, that Liam fears Zayn’s plan won’t even make it past the front door. Thankfully, it’s fleeting and he’s waved in after being warned that all he’s getting is ten minutes “and not a second more”.

Stepping through the front door, Liam immediately removes his hat and takes notice that the home’s interior isn’t decorated anywhere near as stylish as the one he and Zayn had just come from. The sitting room that he’s being directed into has a very distinct cozy feel that he prefers to ornate paneling or marble vases. There’s charm to practically everything, especially the brick fireplace that sticks out from the north facing wall and the upholstered couches that are well-loved and not pristine like the leather Chesterton sofas of the times.

Since he’s completely uneducated on early twentieth century manners, he plans on playing it safe and staying standing until the woman takes her seat first, but she never does. Instead, she hovers in the room’s entryway.

“Would you care for tea?”

The question comes out forced, like she’d much rather tell him to get lost than follow gender roles and play good host.

Liam chooses to pretend like he’s immune to the disrespectful tone, answering with a posh, “That would be lovely, thank you” and rolling his eyes at his own try-hard attitude when he’s left alone.

Before he sits, he takes the time to look around the room a bit more in the event any clues are hidden in the black and white photos hanging on the walls or stuck between any two particularly thick books on the towering shelf in the right corner. As he’s about to peer out the window that’s been pushed up to check for Zayn’s whereabouts, a small, constant clattering of dishes prevents him from ever getting too close.

“Let me help you,” he insists, meeting the woman in the hallway and stealing the tray she’s holding that’s probably as heavy as she is.

He carries it to the sitting room coffee table where he pours her a cup of tea from the porcelain teapot, doing the same for himself after taking a seat on the sofa. Because the drink’s too hot to sip, Liam merely smiles politely at Mrs. Green, who’s staring at him from the armchair she’s chosen to settle in. There’s an inkling more receptiveness there in comparison to how she initially greeted him, but it’s minute. She’s very clearly waiting for him to open his mouth and give her a reason to throw him out.

“Is that your daughter?” Liam tries, pointing to one of the closer photos on the wall of a little girl, around seven, mounted on a light coloured horse.

Mrs. Green turns to the picture and smiles softly, “When she was younger, yes.”

The pewter figurine of a stallion that’s being used as a bookend on one of the units’ top shelves is pointed to next.

“You seem to be a family of equestrians.”

“I grew up on a farm,” Mrs. Green divulges. “I’ve loved horses all my life. When I had children of my own it was natural that I pass that on to them. Do you ride Mr. Payne?”

“Actually, I rode my first horse just a couple of weeks ago,” Liam replies, excited that his chosen subject seems to be loosening the woman up, if just barely. “It’s not as easy as it looks, you know?”

A sharp knock, like someone’s hit the house’s side paneling, rings out and stops Liam from continuing.

“Let me check on that,” he says while standing, “you stay there.”

Even though he knows what he’ll find, he still pretends to look around the outdoors before locking eyes with Zayn, whose body is pressed flat against the house. He’s visibly irritated and wastes no time in mouthing the words ‘stop stalling’.

Without batting an eye, Liam turns back to the woman in her chair and asks, “Are you cold Mrs. Green? I didn’t see anything, but I’d be glad to shut the window for you if you’d like.”

He’ll be damned if his being used isn’t going to be on his terms as much as possible.

“No, I like for the draft to come through.”

With Zayn’s fate decided, Liam returns to his seat. “As I was saying, I had a wonderful time out in the...countryside. But tell me, is a person’s ride impacted largely on the sort of breed they choose or is it all about skill?”

Mrs. Green returns her teacup to its tray in order to give the question her full attention. “Oh, it’s a number of things. Breed, terrain, saddle, and yes, of course skill.”

It’s as if Liam’s opened up Pandora’s Box in the best of ways. The two stay on the topic of horseback riding for a good amount of time, and although the thought of shunning Zayn for bothering him about not staying focused on their end goal may have crossed Liam’s mind, he’s been keeping track of the passing minutes on the square clock in the middle of the mantle. And to his delight, he doesn’t even need to act on it or find a clever way to shift the conversation from Mrs. Green’s informative storytelling about life as a novice rider, she does that for him.

“Mr. Payne, I can see that you care about what I have to say, but you came here for a specific reason and I’m afraid I’m keeping you from your other work by not allowing you to finish your business here.”

“No, that’s quite alright,” Liam responds kindly, “you’re correct in thinking I was enjoying your valuable insight, but perhaps I should cut to the chase.” He considers his options of how to do that, settling on a simple, “Do you remember your time living on Bernard Road?”

“So, this is about Margaret,” Mrs. Green sighs in such an exasperated tone that it’s hard to believe she thought any differently from the moment Liam introduced himself.

“Yes,” he replies stoically. “Her case is being reopened and well, I would be doing her family a disservice if I were to leave any stone unturned.”

“Her family?” She scoffs. “They didn’t care about her then, I can’t think of one reason why they’d care about her now.”

Sensing a sore worth picking at, Liam gives her a tad more to work with. “Her parents have passed, but her brother seemed relatively upset when spoken to.”

“Francis is crazy. He used to kill animals as a young boy and bury them in the backyard. I watched him do it!” She proclaims, and with immense pride too. “The police dug up all the skeletons when they’d noticed the loose soil. I think they were expecting to find her body, not rows and rows of dead pets.

“He didn’t shed a tear anytime he was cutting off their limbs.” The woman’s face twists into explicit disgust, “Trust me Mr. Payne, the tears you saw were fake. Being crazy can give you the ability to do that sort of thing.”

“Did their parents know he was doing this?” Liam asks with knitted eyebrows, thankful that he’s got a second set of ears listening in so he doesn’t feel so obligated to remember every last detail that’s being relayed.

“If it didn’t have to do with either one of them, they couldn’t care less about it. Do you know how they died?”

Panic begins to show itself once again as Liam fails to recollect anything about the fate of the missing girl’s parents from Zayn’s summary. “I don’t I’m afraid.”

“I bet he killed her and then killed himself after.” The accusation is said with such certitude and indifference towards its violence that Liam’s startled. “According to Margaret, he was always shouting that’s what he’d do.”

“You two spoke?”

“All the time. I never saw her father abuse her mother, but everyone on the block could hear their fighting. Once, I saw her at the shop and I told her if she ever needed to take a break from it, she could come over to my house. It’s not as if they’d notice her gone.”

“Did she?” Liam presses. “Ever take you up on that, I mean.”

“More than I expected. If Francis wasn’t so crazy, I would’ve offered him the same.”

Knowing that he’s running short on time, Liam decides to take the plunge while he still can. “Mrs. Green, do you know what happened to Margaret? Or did she at least tell you anything that might’ve seemed out of character?”

The back and forth comes to a screeching halt. Mrs. Green picks up her tea, and while she takes a drink, Liam can’t stop kicking himself for being so blunt. His heart continues to sink the longer the room stays silent and the woman’s eyes trail over items throughout. He watches, helplessly, as she stares out the window, at her horse pewter, at her family photos. When her gaze returns back to him and there’s resignation there, not hatred, a small glimmer of hope is reignited.

“The detectives that first came to speak to me all those years ago were quite forceful,” Mrs. Green states passively. “One might have seen it as harassment how often they showed up with their badges pressed to the window, trying to get me to answer their questions as if _I_ had been involved in Margaret’s disappearance myself. You’ve acted differently to them the moment I answered the door.” Her eyes soften even more than they already have, “You treated me like a friend, not an informant.”

Liam dismisses the claim by shaking his head, “I’m just treating you how you deserve to be.”

“And for that, I’ll tell you what I didn’t tell them.”

Time feels like it stops as one of the room’s inhabitants takes a deep breath, while the other sits on the edge of his seat, invested in this case like it’s real life and not the plot of a graphic novel.

“Margaret’s still alive. I helped her escape that wretched household and start a new life.”

“Here?” Liam asks, refraining from giving his eyes permission to dart around the room like the missing girl has been waiting to be spotted this whole time.

“No, elsewhere in the country, but I swore to her I would never reveal her whereabouts.” Fragile hands grip the warm teacup beneath their touch. “Mr. Payne, if I wouldn’t have assisted in getting her a new identity and moving her out of the city, she would’ve been killed. If not by her father, then by her brother.”

In the resolute silence, Liam thinks if he should ask anything else, but he doesn’t get very far; there’s another knock coming from outside. Luckily, the old woman is so lost in thought that she doesn’t even seem to hear the hollow sound.

“Are you going to arrest me?” She questions, the vulnerability she’s exhibiting making her seem like a completely different person than the one who opened the door.

Considering Zayn hasn’t finished this story’s writing, there isn’t any grief to be had when Liam answers, “No, as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t look like we’re ever going to get any hints worthy of this case warming up. I’m gonna toss it at the bottom of the unsolved pile again and make the next guy worry about it.”

In the middle of finally taking a sip of his tea, he sends the woman a sly wink, smiling lightly in response to her own once she catches on.

“I really should get going though,” he says, placing his teacup back down. “Thank you again for the tea, and your time. I’ll be sure to remember what you said about Stallions.”

On his way to the door, he refits his hat and smirks to himself when behind him, he hears, “If my daughters weren’t married off already, I’d be asking you around again.”

“Liam!”

Both look to the sidewalk where Zayn’s swinging his pocket watch with emphasis.

Before he hurries down the front steps, he bows politely to the woman and utters a simple, “My loss.”

“I was _this_ close to climbing through the window,” Zayn seethes when Liam’s joining him on the pavement. “What the hell were you thinking talking about horses for an hour?”

Rather than wait for an answer, he grabs Liam’s hand and kisses his watch, not needing more than a single blink of the eye to adjust back to life in Liam’s flat. Liam himself requires at least five or six.

“It wasn’t an hour,” he argues once he’s sure that he knows where he is and there isn’t any threat of that changing. “And working at the cafe has taught me that people like talking about themselves. I have to be observant to make good conversation with them while they wait. I was just doing it to get her to open up. You shouldn’t be complaining, my people skills got you your happy ending.”

Zayn pauses on his way to placing his sketchbook back in his bag, turning and retracing his steps once he sees how serious Liam’s taken to his poor sense of humour. “It did, and I know exactly how to incorporate it into what I have. Thank you.” To really prove his point, he kisses Liam gently, and after, leaves his lips close to whisper, “You did amazing.”

With their bodies as close as they are, it isn’t hard to feel when one makes a move to leave their safe confine. Liam’s hand reaches forward to grab at the other’s waist to prevent that from happening; he’s not ready.

“At first, I was nervous it was all a bit too complicated for me,” he confesses quietly.

“Now that you’ve helped solve an infamous cold case, will you believe me when I say book smarts aren’t the key to intelligence?”

“If I say yes, do I get another kiss?”

“And a partner to nap with.”

Their lips meet on Liam’s accord this go around, quick and selfish.

“You’re not going straight to work after that?” He asks once they’ve parted, still not letting the other leave their spot in the middle of the room.

“Not if the alternative is spending more time with you.” Zayn rubs his lips together deviously, “And we’re still technically on a date, right?”

Over his shoulder, Liam looks to where his wooden table used to be filled with an Italian feast. “A second date,” he says with slight mischief. “So keep your hands to yourself.”

To abide by his own rules, he releases his grip on the man’s side, enjoying this cocky side of himself that rarely shows itself. But all it takes is Zayn biting back a smile and tucking both hands into his trouser pockets for Liam to remember why that is - he’s got walls made of glass.

Quiet laughter fills the room before Zayn’s arm is tugged out of its prison in an effort to get him to quit playing. It’s pulled a second time to show which way the bedroom is, and a third for a kiss inside, but only after he’s pushed away for staring while they shimmied down to their pants. Under the sheets, Zayn’s arm gets tugged one final time, to bring him back into Liam’s chest where the man can peacefully bask in the warmth of the one he’s always wanted.

**Chapter 10**

Striking up conversation with customers seems oddly strange now. So does going to bed alone, even if that Tuesday night Zayn had only warmed up the other half of the bed for a fraction of the time Liam was nestled in it before waking to furiously type in the other room.

There’s a sense of emptiness, one that verges on meaninglessness, whenever Liam looks up from behind the espresso machine and takes notice of a customer patiently waiting, watching. If he recognizes them, he’ll rummage through his mental deck of index cards to locate theirs and find out what he’s written, what’s worth asking about or getting caught up on. But now, when they make eye contact and grin at one another, he pauses his automatic recall and waits to see if they make the first move. The experiment doesn’t need to last any longer than a couple of days for enough regulars to have cycled through the door and tell Liam what he needs to know. Something that he’s never wanted to come to terms with, but always suspected was true. At the end of the day, the human race isn’t anything other than selfish.

On Saturday, he ropes Niall into joining him on a trip to the local camera shop. Not much convincing was needed, all he had to do was open the call with “hey, I want to buy a camera” and Niall was already halfway out the door. And while they spent over an hour looking up and down all three measly aisles, Niall giving the pros and cons of practically each camera on display, the truth is, Liam wasn't looking for anything less than such a detailed overview. Other than his limited internet research that came as a result of a walk home from work and fifty mediocre iPhone photos, he knew nothing about why companies were able to charge two hundred pounds for one camera and two thousand for another. It turns out that professionalism and a lens that’s able to decently refract light will only set you back around four hundred.

What Liam _hadn’t_ wanted, but knew to expect anyway, was for the entire thing to be documented with one of Niall’s own cameras (a price tag he doesn’t want to find out now that he knows what he does).

Before they stop for lunch, the questions thrown his way are easy. What sorts of things do you plan on photographing now that you know which buttons do what? What about filming? Do you want to get into that too? The last triggers a series of pleas for Liam to make his own Youtube channel (or at the very least, find time to collaborate on Niall’s) that continues all throughout their meal.

But it’s after lunch, during his aperture lesson, when Niall’s given up hope in convincing him to do as he’s done and sell his soul to mediocre Internet fame, that Liam considers taking a fake call just to ditch him. And that’s because he’s moved on to questioning Liam about his dating life - a slippery slope to tread on while shoving a camera barrel in your subject’s face.

“Tell us a little bit about this strapping lad you’re dating. Just a little!”

“He’s a lad.”

“Aw come on, more than that.”

Besides not wanting to answer for obvious reasons, Liam’s intensely focused on trying to get an interesting point of view shot of an ant hill they’ve stumbled upon. It took him a while to study the ants’ patterns to know where he could lay down without being buried alive. He’s not about to jeopardize that.

The distinct click of the shutter snapping shut sounds out right before Liam pulls away from the viewfinder to take a look at the camera’s preview screen. On it there’s a picture captured at such a low angle that the hill looks more like an ominous volcano than a bump of dirt.

Pleased, Liam squints up at the sun where another camera’s waiting just on the other side of the ant hill.

“You want an exclusive?” he asks it.

“Yes! Finally,” Niall sighs, “Only took ya the whole day to catch on.”

“He’s got a secret. A big one.” Niall’s eyebrows rise at the sneaky tone Liam’s using. “So big, that I can only tell you in a whisper.”

The man gets down on his knees so he can better pick up Liam’s voice now that it’s become hushed.

“You’ve got to get closer.”

So he does, shuffling forward, eyes staying glued to the LCD screen that’s folded out at his camera’s side.

“Can you hear me?”

Niall nods eagerly.

“Ok, so I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’re my best mate, so I trust you’ll keep it to yourself.” For dramatic effect, Liam waits until Niall looks like he’s about ready to burst at the seams, then he whispers quieter than he has before, “You’ve got ants all over you.”

“Huh?”

One look away from his camera and Niall realizes that he’s plotted himself right in the middle of the worker ants’ path. A swarm is making their way from his toro, up to his shoulders, then down his upper arm that’s only covered by a short sleeve tee.

“Fuck!”

In his territory, safe from insects, Liam flicks his camera into video mode so he doesn’t miss out on saving the memory of Niall hopping around, frantically swiping at his entire body. For once, _Liam’s_ the one with the maniacal laughter that can’t be stopped. Not when Niall’s finally convinced he’s clean of bugs, and not when Liam’s going through the footage alone later that night. It dies down come Monday morning when Niall’s decided he isn’t pissed anymore, but rather grateful for having a valuable piece of raw comedy to include in his upcoming vlog. And also for giving Josie something to laugh about at the end of the staff meeting, even if it is at his own expense.

Liam considers showing it to Zayn later in the morning to see if he’ll get the same reaction, but he decides against it. He’d rather take advantage of the window Zayn affords him between work breaks (which, to Liam’s pleasure are greater now that his outline’s finished and he’s moved on to expanding it into proper dialogue) and show off more important files on his new SD card than Niall’s nature faux paux.

“We’re halfway through the month,” Zayn starts apprehensively when Liam’s walking over to his corner, flat white in one hand, camera in the other, “don’t tell me you’ve just now decided my picture needs replacing.”

Liam’s eyes look over his shoulder at the Customer of the Month board as he hands over the drink. “No, but since you’ve suggested it.”

At Liam’s raise of the camera, the red beanie covering Zayn’s bed head gets pulled down to cover his sleep-deprived eyes. A simple bet would say that after Liam walks away, he’ll succumb to the rest his body’s so desperately craving.

Once a fresh _click!_ is made, the camera in Liam’s hand gets switched to playback mode.

“It’s safe for vampires to come out from hiding,” he announces, watching adoringly as Zayn’s hazel eyes are uncovered just enough to ensure the coast truly is clear before the hat is readjusted back to its proper positioning.

“I came over to show you my new project,” Liam adds.

“A side hustle as Niall’s personal videographer?”

“He wishes,” Liam mutters, turning the camera around for Zayn to be able to see the shots he’s taken. “This is mine. I bought it this weekend to help exercise my imagination. I’ve got a lot to learn with all the fancy settings, but Niall taught me the basics. I figure if I carry it around with me all the time, I’ll get better with practice.”

Pride shines from Zayn’s exhausted eyes, providing Liam enough inspiration to last a lifetime.

“Come over here so I can get a better look,” the man says with a nod of his head.

One glance at the armchair and it’s easy to see that its maximum occupancy is one. If Zayn’s under the impression that he’s willing to make a spectacle out of himself by sitting on his lap, he’s gravely mistaken. So instead, Liam opts to carefully maneuver himself onto the chair’s left arm, leaning into Zayn’s space to gather every ounce of limited intimacy the position offers. A left arm draped over his thigh and he knows he’s made the right choice.

One by one, photos from the weekend and that morning’s bus ride are scrolled through. Now that it’s actually happening and not just an idea, nerves override Liam’s excitement at sharing his amateur photography. Any time Zayn stays staring at one photo for more than a few seconds, he holds his breath, simultaneously wanting to know why he stopped and not. Eventually the still of Niall’s beloved ant hill comes up, looking as though the lines of the ants were black rivers cascading down a desert rock.

“Seems like that’d make a cool setting, don’t you think? A huge mountain with poisonous water falling around it?” he finds the courage to say, more than prepared for his novice concept to be perceived as dumb.

“In order to reach the top and find the treasure, a hero has to find ways to bypass the streams.” Liam beams at the addition that’s better than any overt praise he could've gotten. “Keep this up and I’ll have to hire you as a creative consultant.”

He knows Zayn’s just being kind, but by no means does that diminish Liam’s excitement towards the fantasy of being involved in helping bring Zayn’s creations to life. It’s just the sort of thing he can latch on to as motivation to stay looking for creative inspiration in the world around him. Which he’ll get to tomorrow.

“If you’re not busy, you should come over tonight,” Zayn says calmly, letting Liam’s camera rest on his lap. “I put together a stack of titles from my collection for you this weekend. When I was at yours last week you seemed genuinely interested to read what I had on hand, but for someone who’s only ever opened a Superman comic-”

“I preferred Batman,” Liam can’t help but cut in.

“A _Batman_ comic,” Zayn revises, smirk growing. “I think it’s only right that you’re introduced to the rest of the graphic novel genre with a proper starter pack.”

Chocolate eyes have never lit up quicker.

“You really did that for me?” Liam asks, unconvinced that another person would take the time to do such a thing. And for him.

“I really did,” Zayn grins affectionately. “They’re waiting for you on top of the bookshelf.”

**Chapter 11**

Zayn’s not exaggerating either, they really are. All eight of them, one on top of the other in a neat, welcoming stack, begging for Liam to open them and take a look inside. What’s even better is that he doesn’t need to wait until the sun has set to do so, Zayn surprises him by packing up at three and cutting his typical eight hour cafe visit short. It’s what they do every afternoon for the next few days, and even though it might earn him at least one suggestive comment a shift from his friends and several more in their group chat afterwards, Liam endures them all with a straight face because he can’t remember reading ever making him feel this fulfilled.

But perhaps that’s to do with the fact that it’s not just reading. It’s sprawling out on Zayn’s sofa, feet up, relaxed, escaping into worlds unknown, all the while, keeping his eye out for movement that lay just beyond the paperbacks’ thin pages.

He’s hardly able to make out any of Zayn’s facial features with him working at his desk, but without having the responsibility of always being on guard - for his team and customers alike - Liam’s able to pick up on a lot more of Zayn’s unique mannerisms than when at work. Like how he’s constantly moving around the desk’s corner lamp, the one that looks identical to the fixture in Pixar’s logo. He’ll grab it by its neck and angle it whichever way he sees fit for the moment, like he’s some sort of radio host that needs his microphone readjusted. Other times, Liam’s attention will be brought to the artist when the noise of fingers tapping on keys seizes and the squelching of leather bends under Zayn weight as he shifts into a crouching position, leaning forward, his forearms against the desk’s wood and his face practically right in front of the monitor. He’ll read over what he’s just written, even mumble the characters’ lines to himself as if to make sure that they’re worded in the most realistic way possible. Unfortunately, Liam’s too far away, and too out of the loop to be able to follow along, but he can hear when Zayn doesn’t like a certain set of dialogue. The same sounds and syllables will be made repeatedly until Zayn gives in, the leather cries out in protest, and he’s back tending to the keyboard.

It’s particularly interesting for Liam to watch (and ultimately try and predict) when the man will toggle between the screenwriting software, his master drawing tablet, and one of his countless black sketchbooks. At any given moment, Liam’s reading can be disrupted by the screeching of a metal kickstand scraping along the desk in haste and Zayn’s mumbling that he needs to stop forgetting to charge his pen as he wakes the tablet. Sometimes, he’ll leave his sketchbook directly next to the touch screen and switch between drawing with the electronic stylus and one of the various graphite pencils that he keeps close to the book, even though they always manage to roll away from him when he’s finished using them. The best explanation Liam can come up with for the redundancy is that Zayn might feel more comfortable practicing something on paper before giving it digital permanency, but that rationale goes out the window when on one occasion, Zayn catches him staring and invites him over for a lowdown of how the machine works. Right away, Liam spots the “eraser” tool, and succumbs to the fact that he shouldn’t question Zayn’s methodology, just respect it for what it is.

He’s expected to politely be told to go back to the couch after the short introduction is finished, but he’s proven wrong when Zayn turns in his chair just enough that he’s able to pull Liam down into his lap.

“What’re you doing?” Liam asks in a half-laugh, half-serious inquiry.

“Letting you try. Here, put this on.”

He takes the short black glove that he’s already been given the demonstration of and slips it over his right pinky and ring finger so neither will create smearing or random lines on the screen when he rests them there while drawing.

“Now hold the pen like you would a regular one and make whatever you want,” Zayn instructs softly.

All Liam can do is stare between the fresh canvas that’s been opened for him, begging to be defiled, and the black pen in his hand. When he inevitably starts, he draws a circle, a lopsided one that winds up looking a lot more like a balloon than a symmetrical ring, but he runs with it. There’s a part of him that thinks if he didn’t and he touched the undo button, he’d get a slap on the wrist.

As he begins to connect several lines from the bottom of the balloon to a plain box shape, the feeling of Zayn’s chin finding a home on his left shoulder can be felt. Small prickles from his beard poke along Liam’s neck, his arms around Liam’s waist like the gentlest of anchors. It’s so intimate and soft, their positioning, that Liam almost wants to say screw the drawing, lay back on Zayn’s chest, and just stay there for a little while. Maybe they can both take a nap like that; Zayn’s due for one pretty soon anyway. But he never gets the chance to voice his wishes, he’s got a small whisper of encouragement nudging him forward.

“Keep going,” it says. “You’re doing good.”

From that comes a few extra details to the subpar hot air balloon: thatching to the basket, a mountain backdrop, a thin road winding off in the distance.

Liam’s hand drops onto the desk as he surveys his work. “I’m not sure what else to add, so I guess I’m done.”

“May I?”

When his hand’s nudged by Zayn’s, he’s ready to relinquish his ownership of the pen for the other to continue where Liam’s stopped, he’s not anticipating sharing it.

Tenderly, Zayn places his hand over Liam’s and guides the pen around the screen, adding colour to it. He goes between tapping the program’s sidebar of never ending hues and the areas that Liam’s blocked in. The balloon becomes a deep plum, the mountains in the background a bright, canary yellow, the basket a rich cognac. After the last is filled in, the brush tip is changed from smooth to textured. One precise swipe over the basket and the cross-cross pattern that Liam drew looks more realistic than he could’ve ever made it on his own.

Once Liam’s original line work is a colourful masterpiece, Zayn lets up on his grip and utters, “Sign the bottom.”

Giggling’s the only way Liam can get through the request, making the horizontal line of his ‘L’ longer than necessary and scribbling the other three letters of his name on top of it like a pretentious artist might.

Zayn’s temple thumps against Liam’s lower ear, “Now it’s worth millions.”

More typical breaks consist of Zayn stretching his legs and coming to join Liam on the couch. He tells him stories, like how his one of a kind newspaper carpet became a thing when he went through a painting phase a few months ago. Occasionally he gets the urge to experiment in mediums other than drawing, and in an effort to ensure he gets his deposit back, he decided to plaster the living room floor in newspaper. Since he’s still got a few canvas’ stored away in the closet, he hasn’t bothered to pick any of the sheets up. Plus, he’s always at the cafe, and even when he is home, he doesn’t move around the flat much anyway. Which Liam’s noticed. If it weren’t for him, he doubts Zayn would take as many breaks as he is; the flat would be entirely silent.

Through the week he hears other lighthearted stories about Zayn growing up and being _that_ art kid. How angry his mum would get when she found mugs full of paint water around the house, coloured rings left in their wake on whatever surface Zayn had forgotten them on. How, on special holidays his excitement at being gifted the expensive supplies he’d begged for quickly turned into nervousness at so much as taking the plastic wrap off them; they were much too precious to be used. Or how he had to learn how to outgrow the impulse to stare at a piece of his until he hated it.

To give Zayn’s speaking voice a break of its own, Liam sprinkled similar childhood stories into their time away from focusing. One night, when they went to the tapas place on the corner for dinner, Liam talked about his summer at boxing camp the entire way through the meal. During another, he touched on his sister’s wedding and how indifferent he felt about settling down any time soon without having experienced all that life has to offer. Whatever that is.

There’s a particular break on the second day that he won't forget anytime soon. He’d gone up behind Zayn to ask if he wanted some tea, and what was meant to be an innocent wrapping of arms around the neck turned into something promiscuous after Zayn tilted his head closer to Liam’s so that the younger man’s lips could brush up against his ear. It turns out there is a mattress behind his bedroom door.

But there are also _truly_ innocent times, when Zayn can’t function without a small nap and Liam isn’t in the mood for a quick snooze so they cuddle on the couch. And if the positioning isn’t too awkward, Liam will continue reading over Zayn’s back, the man’s stomach peacefully rising and falling against Liam’s. Stunningly, Liam only ends up falling asleep in this arrangement, though when he wakes, he’s alone on the couch with a heavy green throw blanket placed over him; Zayn’s busy working away in his orange sketchbook that only ever makes appearances in the early morning hours.

He’s got a toothbrush over here now, along with a steady change of clothes that he brought with him when he slept over that first night and awoke to Zayn suggesting they do it again that night, and then the next, and the next. Now it’s Thursday, and much like life had felt off after last week when Zayn had spent the night at Liam’s, the younger male can’t help but wonder what his routine will feel like once they decide to break this current pattern they’ve got going.

One thing he doesn’t plan on changing is reading. Graphic novels at least. He’s only just now getting to the last, a story that Zayn wrote and drew himself about a ninja in feudal Japan who becomes the first to graduate the academy with only one arm. It’s short, like the other seven had been, not more than 150 pages, and given that it’s only speech between characters, not 150 pages of pure narrative, it’s something Liam could probably finish in less than two hours. But he takes his time, resisting the urge to read quickly in order to always be on top of the action. Although, admittedly, this book in specific takes a lot longer to get through thanks to Zayn using a right-to-left workflow as a “nod to Japanese style manga, since that’s how they’re written and it’s where the story takes place”. To Liam, it’s important to focus on the story, the _words_ that Zayn and the other authors he’s finished reading books of have worked so hard to craft.

And the graphics. They’re so detailed that Liam can’t believe the man sitting not more than three meters away from him is solely responsible. There are lines so thin on some of the traditional Japanese roofs that he can’t even begin to count them all, his eyes always go blurry any time he tries - and that’s just for one roof! The authentic dress of the city dwellers, the street markets, the interior decorations in the homes. These are all background details, nothing to do with the main character or his mission, yet they’re all drawn with precision, never treated second-rate. The shading on a specific enemy’s jawline to match the moonlight coming in from a side window, or the dirt underneath an unsheathed sword that gets its texture from small, various sized dots. There has to be thousands; that single horizontal panel alone takes up an entire third of a page. He doesn’t overlook the shaping of the panels either. Why some might take up a majority of the page in order to evoke a sense of emphasis that would be the job of cleverly edited music or a close-up in a film. Getting them to be the right shape takes expertise, just like figuring out where to place speech bubbles (assuming they’re round to begin with) so that they fit perfectly into the jigsaw puzzle that each panel truly is - a balance between words, spacing, and ink.

Even the chapter breaks are a work of art. Liam didn’t consider them important at first, but by book three it became clear that they weren’t simply there as dividers, they allowed authors the ability to reveal amusing pieces of information about the world they’ve built that isn’t vital to the plot. One Japanese author chose to reveal a different board game that the main demonic god of the story enjoys playing when he’s not working, while another writer chose to give a student profile of those in the main character’s class that weren’t ever given a speaking role, but because the storyline revolved around a school setting, were still always present. In the case of Zayn’s ninja book, he filled the chapter breaks with step-by-step guides on how to perform specific martial arts attacks, some of which were featured within the pages following.

“Which part are you at?”

Liam angles the book for Zayn to see when he comes to take a seat next to him, “He’s getting his final task to graduate.”

Zayn smiles lightly in recognition. And perhaps the way Liam naturally leans into his side too. “What do you think?”

“I love it,” he answers immediately. “It’s such an original idea. But-” Zayn’s humoured expression has Liam realizing how that might’ve sounded like the precursor to an insult. “No, it’s not a bad thing,” he reassures the other, “I was just thinking. Life would be so much easier with this amount of structure and rewards.”

Zayn squints down at the book in Liam’s hand, clearly unprepared for that kind of feedback. “Do you really believe that?” He asks earnestly.

“Yeah.” Using his fingers, Liam counts out his rationale, “You’re delegated missions, you complete them, you get paid - in cash and in secret honour. I know I already lead a relatively high structured life, but what do I have to show for it?” He gestures to the pages in his hand, “You’ve got your books and I’ve got what? A long list of coffee recipes? Good rapport with the locals? Those aren’t exactly worth much in the long run.”

“You shouldn’t speak about life like it’s a transaction,” Zayn reprimands. “It’s a rollercoaster, you’ve just gotta enjoy the ride. That’s more important than achievements.”

Liam’s eyes stay looking down at Katsu, Zayn’s heroic main character. He’s walking from his teacher’s quarters to his own, trying to come up with a plan of action for his final test.

“He’s even more determined than I am,” Liam mumbles, defeated over what it means to not be able to hold a light to a fictional character.

“He sort of has to be if he wants to prove himself using only one arm. I made him a bit like a militant robot for a reason.”

Amid Zayn’s pause, Liam can feel his profile being studied, but he refuses to see why.

“You could train that hard if you wanted to,” Zayn opines boldly.

“I don’t think I could.”

“With these muscles?” Liam’s upper arm gets a light squeeze. “At least try so I can watch.”

The racy comment finally gets Liam to raise his line of sight, typical bashful smile present. “Can you afford to take the night off?”

Instead of an answer, he’s only given enough time to take a deep breath before being launched into another dimension.

One glance at his surroundings and Liam knows exactly where he is: in the open-air courtyard Katsu uses to train. It’s smaller than the main teaching area centered within the ancient academy, but is the same square shape, leveled with identical blonde gravel. With it being a full moon it’s easy to make out the wooden, conclave buildings and their empty walkways boxing in the courtyard. Thanks to the cratered light in the sky, his clothes aren’t a problem to decipher either. They’re fashioned from a heavy, black cotton material - harem style trousers that fall over his spiked boots, a tucked-in long sleeved top, and a belt that resembles those fastened around a karate gi. Wrapped around his head (save a thin opening where his eyes are exposed) is a lighter cloth material. Normally, he’d be searching for a reflective surface to check himself out in, but there’s a strap looping diagonally across his chest, carrying something of weight that has more of his attention.

Cautiously, he reaches behind his right shoulder and feels for what might be to blame. Right away, he feels a braided handle, and breaks out in a smile like no other.

One powerful tug overhead relinquishes a full-length katana from its sheath. Under the moonlight, the blade shines radiantly with power, all seventy-six centimeters of it. Its downward-carved steel tip appears sharp enough to slice paper.

“Hikaru.”

Liam’s entire body jolts at the unsuspecting voice cutting through the silent courtyard. When he looks up, he sees two others step out from the far right corner; they’re all three wearing the same outfits. Even though they’re headed straight towards him, Liam still spares a glance over his shoulder to see who the shorter man had addressed because it surely wasn’t him. But it must be. He’s on his own.

“I’ve come to bring you your partner, Yori,” the shorter of the two announces when the pair stop directly in front of him.

With the limited lighting, it’s hard for Liam to tell if the eyes belonging to Yori are light hazel or if the right has a tiny speck of the same colour attached to it, but he tries nonetheless.

“Your first mission as partners is to retrieve the shogun’s war satchel,” the man goes on to explain. “I expect to have it in my possession by morning. Kill whoever gets in your way. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Liam replies obediently, remembering to bow like Katsu had to his superiors and watching as Yori does the same after turning his body to face the man.

Once he’s out of earshot, Liam focuses heavily on the person in front of him again, trying to make out any distinguishing features that might give away his identity, but the clothing does it’s job and he’s left with nothing.

“Zayn?” He whispers warily.

The masked figure chuckles, “If it wasn’t me, what difference would whispering make?” Liam wants to give him both a slap for the cheek and a hug in relief. “Liam and Zayn aren’t the most Japanese of names.”

Zayn’s arms cross over his chest as he drinks in the view, a smug smirk on his lips that Liam doesn’t need to see to know is there.

“I see we’re skipping to the good part,” Zayn says cockily.

As he’s about to make his own greedy comment about getting his fair share of stimulating images, Liam notices Zayn’s without a sword. “Where’s yours?” He asks, lifting the sword that he’s been letting stand by his side.

“I wouldn’t last a second swinging one of those around with these toothpick arms.” A half-assed flex shows itself. “That’s why we’re partners. I’m the limber, agile one who does all the tactile background work, and you handle the manual labor.”

“Not tonight I won’t,” Liam disputes, swinging his sword around with a limp wrist. “I’ve got no idea how to use this thing.”

“Then let’s practice.” Off to the side Zayn grabs two wooden versions of Liam’s katana, tossing one over and holding his own out in a taunting manner when he’s returned.

It’s light as air, though Liam still inspects it as if it isn’t. There isn’t as sturdy of a handle to hold on to, so when he swings, it’s hesitant and weak, but at least he doesn’t miss; the two swords collide with a clean _clonk_. It’s about five times softer than when Zayn takes his turn and strikes Liam’s piece of wood with full force.

“For someone who claims they don’t use swords, you’re pretty good at using one,” Liam says, astonished at how much reverberation could come from a single hit.

“Out of all my stories, this is the one I visit the most. And if you attend the academy, you must undergo all weapons training, not just select.”

Liam’s being motioned to take another swing, and this time, when he does, he comes out feeling exceptionally proud at making Zayn’s sword move downwards with the momentum rather than stopping the energy in its place.

“I would’ve expected for you to visit the future one, with the cool drawing stuff and all.”

He holds out his sword right in the nick of time to block Zayn’s next swing from below.

“I can do enough of that with special effects programs in real life. Here, even in classes, it’s peaceful. The methodical training is sort of like meditation in a way.”

Trying to imitate Zayn’s upper swing proves to be a lot more difficult than Liam had anticipated, even with two hands. It’s not a natural motion, and when the two swords collide, he loses his grip and almost the wood along with it.

“Seems like it’d be more of a workout to me,” he notes.

“And yet tonight, it’s neither. Unless you count being on a date as meditative.” Again, Liam can see the suggestive expression through Zayn’s face covering. “Just say the word and it could be a workout too, if you catch my drift.”

A stronger, more confident upswing from Liam, unleashes a string of laughter from under Zayn’s mask.

“ _You’re_ the one who brought us here,” Liam reminds him. “We could’ve stayed at home if you would’ve rather used your break time to get into a different kind of trouble.”

He awaits the retaliation swing that’s sure to come from a remark like that, even has his stance prepared and everything, but it doesn’t come as quick as he expected. There’s a beat where Zayn just stares at him before realizing it’s his turn in their back and forth and swings sideways. It’s a beat that brings unease to Liam’s disposition and makes him wish he could literally see through Zayn’s face covering so he could at least gain some sort of insight on how deep the hole that he just dug for himself is.

“Was that too forward?” He asks with trepidation.

“Not at all,” Zayn replies calmly, sword at the ready. “Come on, try harder. The real thing’s gonna take a lot more effort if you’re looking to knock someone off their feet.”

Somewhere in the past minute the tone’s shifted. Liam’s sure it’s his fault, but he can’t pinpoint how. Regardless, he takes Zayn’s advice and puts his all in his next swing and all those that follow after he’s urged to keep going, Zayn’s got enough practice under his belt not to take up any of their precious time.

Over and over, Liam hurls his sword at Zayn’s all the while doing his best to remember his boxing days as a youth and how he was taught to shuffle around on the balls of his feet so he can dodge anything in less than a second. It comes in handy for lunging too, the movement looking similar to that of a fencer with a wooden sword in his hand. But still, after getting his blood pumping and exerting himself to the point where he’s broken out into a sweat, he’s not convinced the work he’s put in is going to be enough to make him a valuable asset for their mission.

He’s standing there, panting behind his face covering when Zayn suggests they take a break and leads them to the nearest overhang where Liam finds refuge in the cool wood panels that can be felt beneath his thick trousers. But it’s nothing in comparison to when he copies Zayn and unties his face covering for it to fall around his neck and the chilly night air begins to dry his sweat.

“You’re looking really good,” Zayn praises, running the back of his hand over his forehead. “I say after this we go for another fifteen minutes and then head out.”

“Home?”

“No, to the shogun’s palace.” Zayn turns his head away from the open courtyard and towards Liam, staring at him pensively. “But when you say home, you mean our world, right?”

“Yeah,” Liam confirms with a raised eyebrow, “that’s sort of where we’re from.”

Humourously, Zayn nods, going back to studying the open expanse of their training grounds. “Can’t argue with that.”

It’s silent after that, and not the good kind that Liam’s learned to stomach— welcome even at times. He knows himself well enough to know that if he doesn’t speak up about it, it’ll eat him alive.

“Where else would I be referring to?”

Zayn shrugs, “I don’t know, earlier when you used the word home, you made it seem like you meant my flat.”

Maybe he should’ve kept his face covered, that way Zayn wouldn’t see the deep red colour that Liam can feel spread from his face, down to his neck like a quick flame. But nothing, absolutely nothing, is worse than _hearing_ the second a person puts the pieces of a silent puzzle together.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Liam says urgently, so humiliated that he doesn’t even mind exacerbating the feeling by looking Zayn in the eye when he speaks. “I hadn’t even realized I said it. I’m not crazy, I swear.”

“You know what would be crazy?” Zayn prefaces almost instantaneously. “If I didn’t enjoy sharing my place and kept inviting you over anyway. Maybe that doesn’t come across because I’m working most of the time you’re there-” An incoming thought puts a momentary stop to explaining his logic. “I suppose I work while I’m at the cafe too. Fucking hell, I need a holiday.”

Liam smiles feebly down at the aged planks of wood that peek out from between his thighs.

“What I was starting to say was that just knowing you’re close by,” Zayn continues, “that’s enough for me. I love that if I look over my shoulder, I know you’ll be there, head in a book or pretending not to watch me.” Liam’s smile widens at his covert observation skills being a bust. “And I can’t tell you how nice it’s been to listen to you talk while we have dinner. You’re a ‘comfortable’ that I haven’t had in awhile. I didn’t expect to find out that you felt the same way.”

Comfortable. It’s such a simple way to describe the past four days, the past three weeks even. The way Liam just kicks off his shoes each time the two step foot into the flat every afternoon like it really is his home. How he knows exactly when Zayn could use a cup of tea and precisely how much milk to stir into it. Or that after the first morning, Liam doesn’t feel the need to ask to use the shower before he heads to work, he just rolls off the couch, folds up the green throw, sets it on the arm for that night, and then drags himself to the en-suite where he can wake up fully. It’s all comfortable. And Liam wouldn’t trade that for any sort of heart-racing chase.

“Surprise,” he reveals softly.

After he’s shifted so that he’s leaning back on his hands, Zayn stretches out his lower half languidly. “Well I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but tomorrow I’ve got a call with my editor to go over my progress on the mystery, so I’m afraid our sleepover streak has to come to an end.”

The news brings Liam a brief pang of disappointment, but it leaves as quick as it comes and is replaced with petulance when Zayn adds, “Do you think you can live without me for a night?”

A loaded question like that has Liam shoving one of the man’s arms, making him lose his balance and fall. It’s unfair, and a little petty, but the laughter that comes of it is worth it.

“I can,” Liam mocks, “but can _you_?”

Before he can register what’s happening, a body’s rolling over on top of him into a push up position. Zayn stays there, loving every bit of how easy it is to make Liam flustered.

“Probably not,” he answers carelessly, likely thinking that by doing so, he’d throw Liam off even more.

But jokes on him, because after imprinting the view of Zayn’s silhouette against the starry night sky, Liam sees his blunt use of honesty, and raises him a slow kiss for the books.

“Care to give me more of a show?” Zayn asks after Liam’s denied him a third by playing coy and turning his cheek for the other to press his lips to instead.

“I’m covered in all black. How could you possibly be turned on by that?”

“You don’t have to show tons of skin for me to find you sexy.”

Not only does that earn him his highly sought after kiss number three, it comes by an aggressive tug at the nape of his neck.

“But I do have a good memory,” Zayn mumbles afterwards, “so it’s not really my fault I’m reminded of your six pack every time you take a swing at me.”

Now _that_ earns him a playful shove and a sharp, “That’s the last kiss you’re getting tonight.”

Zayn bites his lip, “We’ll see about that.”

Round two of practice involves a lot fancier spins and jumps than its predecessor - for Zayn’s viewing pleasure and Liam’s footwork. They do have a mission to train for after all.

And he’s more than glad they did because the palace is more like a small city with how far it stretches and how many points of security they need to bypass. After scaling the third perimeter wall with nothing other than rope and a grappling hook Zayn had picked up before they left the academy, Liam's starting to wonder if he’s as in shape as he thought he was. Thankfully that’s the last of the climbing until they need to retrace their steps all over again.

As they maneuver through the dimly lit corridors towards the shogun’s study, Liam’s got his ears and eyes open for any late night wanderers. He keeps both his hands balled up at chest level, ready for hand to hand combat or to unsheathe his katana at a moment’s notice. Meanwhile, Zayn’s every bit as swift as he had previously claimed to be, slinking around corners with such stealth that not even a blind man would be able to hear him.

After being lured in by the maze, they finally reach their destination, as confirmed by Zayn peeking inside the empty room’s doorway and sighting the extensive cabinetry lining the back wall that’s been transformed into an intricately painted mural of the palace’s exterior forestry.

“You stay here and keep watch,” he whispers. “I’ll be quick.”

Before he slips through the doorway, he steals one of the two self-burning oil lamps flanking the doorway from off the floor.

The remaining lamp just barely illuminates the corridor enough for Liam to be able to make out each end. Since they came from the right, his eyes linger on the left each time he swivels his head. There’s no telling what lies beyond the corner, but it only takes a few minutes for him to find out.

He hears the light pit-pattering of footsteps before he sees the shadow cast on the wall, it’s size growing as the figure draws nearer to the corner’s edge. As quietly as possible, he reaches over his right shoulder and grips his sword’s handle with both hands, staying close to the wall as he tiptoes towards the stranger. He halts just shy of exposing himself, his heart continuing to beat wildly in his chest. The shadow’s practically reached the ceiling now. Its size may not ease Liam’s nerves, but the fact that it allows him to see the other isn’t brandishing a weapon, does.

He returns both hands to the front of his face promptly, the left just in front of the right. It’s risky, but he peels himself away from the wall and completes his boxer’s stance mirroring his fists with his feet.

 _Lay into the punch_ , he reminds himself. _Twist your hips and use your body weight._

The guard barely turns the corner when Liam throws his first punch, exhaling loudly as his knuckles hit the man’s nose. Less than a second later his cross jab cracks his jaw.

The short man stumbles backwards, letting out a groan of pain as he uses one arm to cradle his face and the other to reach for the dagger at his side. But Liam beats him to it and kicks his hand with so much force that he’s worried he might’ve broken it. All he has time to think about is that he’s not hearing any wailing of pain, only low grunts of the other doing his best to gather himself and put up a valiant fight. Except he doesn’t stand a chance. Liam’s got about fifteen kilos on him and the determination not to get caught.

He throws another set of jabs to the man’s face, followed by a brisk roundhouse kick to his right temple. Somewhere, a bell goes off ringside to signal the almighty K.O..

Once he’s sure the man’s out, Liam rushes back to the room he’s meant to be protecting.

“Zayn,” he hisses, neck craned around the doorway. “We’ve gotta go.”

“I haven’t found it yet,” Zayn replies back in a loud, exasperated whisper; he’s scaled one of the larger shelving units and has his left arm shoulder deep into one of the holes filled with tightly wound scrolls.

“Leave it,” Liam urges. “I just had to knock someone out. There’s bound to be others behind him.”

When he comes up empty handed, Zayn pulls out his arm and uses it to hoist himself up another level. “You don’t understand,” he mumbles. “The spring watch we need to get out of here is in that sack.”

It’s probably a good thing Liam’s heart dropped into his stomach, otherwise he would’ve royally screwed them over with an outburst the moment so appropriately called for.

“You mean we’re stuck here?” he asks nervously after checking to make sure he’s still alone in the hallway, unsure of whether or not he’s prepared for the answer. Or if he even wants to hear it at all.

“Not if you leave me alone and let me keep searching!” Like an expert mountaineer, Zayn stretches himself across a large gap between cabinetry. Once he’s firmly stationed, he opens up the nearest glass cupboard and begins to rummage through its contents. “Use your katana,” he advises. “Pretend this is a video game.”

A video game? Since when did you have to worry about getting stuck fighting alongside Mortal Kombat characters?

Standing in the middle of the corridor, time counting down until his next opponent is scheduled to appear, his last still out cold on the hard ground, Liam removes his sword from its protection. He can hear the words of his and Zayn’s superior as he twists the grip: _kill anyone who gets in your way_. If only this really were a video game, then he might be able to obey such inhumane orders. But he’s no fool. Or Jackie Chan. Should multiple men attack him from either direction, or god forbid both, his two fists won’t do him any good.

 _Just pretend this is a video game_.

For several minutes, all Liam hears is Zayn’s rustling in the room behind him, and even then, he’s got to strain his ears to be able to do so. He should be happy that he hasn’t heard any other signs of movement, but the silence is beginning to play tricks on him. It seems like every ten seconds he finds himself convinced that he hears the sound of boots hitting wooden flooring, only to find that it’s nothing more than an auditory mirage when the noise vanishes with no shoes to show for it. At this point, he’s begging for a group of men to bombard him. That’d be much easier on the psyche than having to endure this silent anticipation that’s building on itself the longer time goes on. It’s like waiting for a jack-in-the-box to burst open.

_Skuff, skuff, skuff, skuff._

Liam turns his head towards the quiet shuffling sound on his left, but doesn’t move. He can’t be sure that this isn’t just another mind game. That is, until he sees a shadow start to show itself in the exact same place the guards had. Then he officially starts to panic.

Sword at the ready, he advances himself toward the blind corner, not bothering to plaster himself against the wall this time. He needs space behind him to gain momentum if he plans on using the weapon in his hands.

He pulls it back as the shadow grows. Doing so feels like compressing a coil. Its pent up energy just waiting to be expelled and in turn, cause maximum damage.

_Just a little bit closer._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

Right as his coil’s poised to explode forward, Liam’s arms go limp at his sides.

In front of him stands a boy, no older than five. He’s transfixed on the guard that’s lying on the ground only a few steps in front of him, completely unaware that Liam’s standing less than two meters away on his right. The man’s holding his breath, praying that whoever this is realizes that it’s unsafe to be wandering about at night and turns around to go back to wherever he came from. But that dream gets shattered the second the boy begins to cry at the sight of the beaten, bleeding guard.

The overwhelming guilt that rips through Liam overshadows any severe anxiety that was previously consuming him. He’s the reason there’s a small pool of blood staining the wooden corridor, just like he’s now the reason for the tears that are being added to the mix. And the wailing that’s coming from deep within the boy’s lungs.

“No, no, no.”

As soon as the child turns his head and spots the ninja, Liam realizes that his protest was uttered aloud.

When wailing turns to screaming, Liam immediately sets his sword on the floor and waves his hands in effort to show that he’s harmless. Unfortunately, it does nothing of the sort. If anything, the boy yells louder.

Hearing his name cut through the latest high-pitched screech, Liam turns around to see Zayn standing in the doorway, a hyde sack the size of a small bag of rice hanging from his right hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” He adds, eyes darting between Liam and the human siren behind him.

“It’s my fault,” Liam blurts out.

After shaking his head incredulously, Zayn holds up his findings. “I got it, let’s go.”

Right as Liam opens his mouth to voice his approval, black silhouettes begin to approach Zayn from behind.

“Stay behind me,” he demands, side stepping in front of Zayn for his body to act as a shield, sword back in his hands.

The closer the dark figures get, the more of their details Liam’s able to make out. Like how there are four of them, and that they’re all wearing the same red and white uniform as the previous guard he’d faced. But most importantly, how each one of them are brandishing swords that look even sharper than his.

There’s no time to map out a plan before what was once a sickeningly quiet corridor becomes a cacophony of metal clattering.

It’s like his body goes into autopilot. Each time his blade’s struck by another, he locks his wrists as best he can. It’s near impossible to decipher where the next blow will come from when everything’s moving a mile a minute under candlelight, but somehow he manages.

Amidst the piercing clashes, his hearing picks up the ongoing sounds of the child’s frightened shrieking and Zayn, rummaging through his bag of valuables. It isn’t long before the latter’s alerting him that he’s found the watch, but Liam’s sight considers the sword being swung at his neck a more pressing issue to focus on, and makes the decision on his behalf to let Zayn’s words fall to the wayside.

A loud gruff of exertion falls from Liam’s lips as he blocks the decapitation attempt and knocks that same man’s blade out of his grasp with a powerful wielding of his own. But the minor victory nearly costs him his innards when another one of his assailants notices Liam’s exposed abdomen and seizes the opportunity.

“Liam!”

Zayn’s shout comes with an aggressive tug at the back of Liam’s uniform that has him stumbling backwards.

The nearest lamp casts a flicker of light on steel falling a hair short of catching fabric.

Against his better judgement, Liam turns his head and sees Zayn holding a wooden box the size of a floss container near his lips. In its center lies a watch face that looks like it’s meant for navigation use rather than to tell time. He’s desperately grasping for Liam’s hand with his left and when that becomes apparent, the younger man gives him what he’s searching for as fast as he can.

A single touch of lips to wood and one dimly lit hallway is traded for one dimly lit flat.

“Looks like we went a little over time since I had to go by my internal clock this visit,” Zayn says. “I’m afraid you’ll only be able to squeeze in an hour nap instead of your usual three.” Standing from the sofa, he extends a hand to a still mildly-disoriented Liam. “Good news is that I think today’s one of those days I’ll be able to stretch out a nap to be that long. We should go all out and use the bed.”

Liam agrees, the couch won’t do for such a special occasion, but he struggles to call what Zayn has in his room a “bed” when all it is is a mattress chucked on the floor without a frame or box spring. The same can be said for the whole room. It’s not so much a “bedroom” as much as it is an empty space. The only thing besides the mattress is a floor lamp in the far corner, right next to a giant heap of laundry. All clean clothes are hanging in the closet, including Zayn’s socks and underwear, which are folded into the different compartments of a collapsible organizer that’s velcroed around the metal rod. When he feels the light drumming of fingers against his chest, Liam draws his eyes away from the open closet and down to where Zayn’s creating an easy song.

“Your heart’s still beating fast,” he says softly, letting up on his taps once Liam slips a palm underneath them to feel for himself. Sure enough, his adrenaline’s just barely subsided.

“It’s only been a few minutes. Can you blame me?”

“We could’ve made a break for it instead of you single handedly taking on the entire Imperial Army.”

“I needed to protect us. I needed to protect _you_ ,” Liam underlines seriously. “You were without a weapon. And that was my job.”

In the dark of the room, the silence that falls becomes deafening. Until, “I didn’t realize you were so brave.”

“Neither did I,” Liam replies, both moved and taken aback.

At twenty-six, it’s the first time anyone’s ever given him that title. Which seems absurd. Certainly he hasn’t gone all these years without doing _something_ worthy of proving himself courageous. He may lead a casual life, nothing spontaneous or out of the box (until now), but he hadn’t thought of it as pitiable, just a little directionless. But with Zayn shedding light on yet another part of his personality that he forgot was worth remembering, he’s starting to wonder if he knows who he is at all.

“Brave, but maybe not so much a ninja,” Zayn surmises. “With your benevolence, you’d make for a better samurai.”

“Remind me again what that means.”

“Being benevolent is similar to having compassion,” Zayn explains, the hand that was once responsible for using Liam’s pectoral like a piano moves down to clutch his lower ribs. “You have benevolence if you tend to always want to do the right thing. Like back there. You could’ve killed all of them, but you didn’t.”

“I didn’t need to,” Liam inserts vehemently.

“That’s exactly my point. You found a way to keep us safe without shedding any blood.”

“I did a little,” he admits. “But it was only from boxing.”

“Boxing?” The question comes out alongside a chuckle. “You beat the other guy up with your boxing skills? I thought you used martial arts.”

Liam’s brow furrows, “I don’t know martial arts.”

More quiet laughter fills the room. “That’s going to be the sequel,” Zayn replies. “Katsu, the one-armed ninja graduates and is paired up with the only ninja in Japan who boxes.”

Were it not for the comfortable rumbling of Zayn’s continued laughter traveling through Liam’s body, he would’ve made sure his “shut it” sounded a lot more threatening.

**Chapter 12**

Thank god for coffee. If not for its glorious invention, there’s no telling if Liam would’ve made it to the cafe the next morning. And that’s not just because the amount of rest he got in the past twenty-four hours comes to a total of two, but because even those had been a struggle to secure. He shouldn’t discount the kiss he’d woken up to, that did play a huge part in alleviating the grog and ensuring he went through his weekly routine of padding off to the shower and leaving Zayn with his orange sketchbook. But unfortunately its magic began to wane when he needed it the most - on the walk to work. Without it, he was forced to combat the stubborn need to obsess over what it’s like to be called brave for the first time at twenty-six on his own. Even when he eventually makes it past the cafe’s doors and has a single shot of espresso running through his veins, the uneasy feeling stays with him. As it does through making a cappuccino for Randy - the only customer Liam knows to still own a flip phone. Through eating his lunch with Josie, eyes never on her, but always on the man in the corner armchair that’s beyond her right shoulder. Through his gym session. Through practicing rich cortados with next month’s exotic coffee in the evening. Even when he meets Niall the next day for a meal and subsequent photography lesson, he finds himself fixated on Zayn’s voice calling him brave.

The familiar accent plays in his head for the millionth time the moment Niall launches himself off a swing set and Liam pushes down on the shutter release.

All throughout his childhood he undertook the same flight path. Did that count as being brave?

“Oi, let me show you how it’s done Niall. You hardly got any air.”

An unimpressed Louis brushing past Liam doesn’t startle the younger man like it should. It’s Zayn’s tender, “Can I take a look?”, spoken directly over his shoulder that spooks him and almost costs him his camera.

“You can’t do that,” he scolds under his breath while showing off his latest shot of Niall’s body soaring through the air. “Shutter speed practice.”

“Nice. A time lapse of him starting and landing would look sick.”

Lowering the camera, Liam turns to look at the other properly. “Why aren’t you at the cafe?”

Zayn raises his eyebrows in offense, shoving his hands into his dark blue skinny jeans that match the distressed jacket he’s got over a ripped tank top and torn up red plaid shirt. “I was looking forward to asking how you did last night without me, but evidently my absence wasn’t even noticed.”

What a dramatic. He’s not about to get any of that out of Liam without the younger man checking to make sure it’s safe first. When he’s confident Niall and Louis are preoccupied arguing over the length of their distances flown, Liam confesses his true feelings. “The second I stepped foot out of the shop yesterday afternoon, I wanted to go back inside and get you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Zayn…” Liam stretches out once it’s clear the other’s trying to milk this for everything it’s worth with the smug tone and look he’s sporting.

Fortunately, he gets the message and even awards Liam with a soft kiss for his troubles. “I missed you too.”

Liam’s about to go in for seconds when he hears an obnoxious whistle.

“Keep it appropriate you two,” Louis barks. “We are at a school playground.”

Yeah, on a Saturday when there’s no children in sight, Liam feels like saying, but he lets Louis’ annoying comment go to ask Zayn if he’s on a break.

The man shrugs, “When I went up for a refill, Louis invited me to join you lads after the switch over from morning to afternoon crew.”

The sneak. Niall had mentioned Louis asking what they were up to and if he could tag along, but he didn’t say anything about Zayn.

“When are you gonna head back?”

Zayn gives him another lazy shrug, “Might take the rest of the day off, I’m not sure yet.”

There’s something Liam’s missing. They may not have been talking for all that long, but if there’s one thing he’s certain of when it comes to Zayn it’s that he doesn’t just casually blow off work like this.

“I take it the meeting with your editor went well then,” he says, testing the waters.

“Very, but tell me when your birthday is again? I remember you said it’s at the end of August, but what day?”

How the hell did he remember that? _Liam_ can’t even remember when he told him.

“The twenty-ninth.”

“Do you have plans?”

“Not yet, why?” He asks skeptically, unsure of where this is going, only that it must be positive with the way his reply lights up Zayn’s entire disposition.

“On that Friday, the twenty-eighth, my editor wants me to come down to his office in London for our monthly check-in, rather than having our usual call. Would you want to come?” Zayn waves his hands like he’s trying to erase any worries that have sprouted in Liam’s mind, “It won’t last for longer than a couple of hours and if you take the day off, we can leave in the morning and then make a whole weekend out of it. What do you say?”

It’s such an out of the blue request, and made at lightning speed that Liam hardly has any time to stop and process it.

“I haven’t been to London in ages,” he thinks aloud. “Probably since my oldest sister got married and her husband insisted I go to his stag do.”

Which he didn’t have the best of times at. They hadn’t even gotten to the second pub of the night before one of others missed being sick in the storm drain for Liam’s trainers. After the third wash, he’d given up on getting the smell out and had to toss them. It’s not exactly a memory with a lot of sales ability.

But then he looks at Zayn and sees how excited he is at the prospect of taking a trip together, just the two of them. And he’d be lying if he said the sight alone didn’t make him want to immediately say yes, nevermind realizing the appeal of his birthday being filled with more than just dinner at his parent’s and drinks with his mates.

“So?” Zayn presses, big, wide eyes hopeful that he’ll be granted this one wish.

“As long as you don’t get annoyed at me for wanting to create my own coffee crawl, then I’ll come.”

Despite the comment coming off like he’s teasing, Liam’s 100% serious. London’s a treasure trove of artisanal roasters. Zayn’s got another thing coming if he thinks they’re going to make the three hour trip down to the capital without a game plan to visit at least five. But by the elated look on Zayn’s face, it doesn’t seem like he has anything to worry about.

“It’ll be _your_ birthday,” Zayn says with a massive grin. “Anything you say, goes. Except for the gift giving. I’m in charge of that. Starting now.”

“Now?” Liam repeats, shell shocked. “The month of August doesn’t even start until next week.”

“I know, but I want to share something with you.”

When they’re back at Zayn’s flat and that something ends up being another open paged book, Liam’s excitement falters.

“Zayn.” The sound of his name being followed by a full stop has the man next to him beginning to worry his bottom lip and Liam feeling guilty. “You know that I was interested in you for seven months before I nominated you for Customer Of The Month, right?”

The sudden tension that had built in Zayn’s posture falls. “That started off a lot more solemn than it ended.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find the right words to get you to understand how grateful I am that you would introduce me to what you can do,” Liam expresses sincerely, hoping his heavy stare will add a layer of conviction to his words. “I mean that. Traveling between here and...everywhere really, it’s changed my life. Thank you doesn’t even begin to cut it.”

“You’re welcome,” Zayn replies graciously.

In the corner of his eye, Liam spots the green throw, still neatly folded on the sofa’s arm. “But you don’t need to keep taking me into your stories to keep me around.”

“Good, because after this one, I’ve only got three others you haven’t seen.”

Liam opens his mouth to protest about how serious he’s trying to be, that he can go back to hang out with Louis if he wants to play sarcastic games, but the scowl he feels his expression shape into must do the job.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Zayn apologizes feverishly. “I know you like me for me, I do. I’m not using my books as a means to impress you. Trust me, if I didn’t think you were appreciative of them, we wouldn’t be standing here. Ok?” He searches Liam’s eyes for confirmation that it is in fact ok. He’s given a nod. “Now, you’re a little outside this story’s demographic, but there’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll love it.”

With that sort of an intro, Liam’s wishing he paid a lot more attention to the paperback that had been picked off the shelf so he could’ve caught its subject and been more prepared for the suffocating heat that hits him when he comes out of his travel haze. He can’t remember a time when he’s ever come close to experiencing this high of a temperature. Although, the thick fur he’s becoming in tune with doesn’t help.

He looks down with the intention to investigate the course hairs, but is met with two golden brown paws instead.

_What the…_

They’re each about the size of his human palms and when he gets further in touch with his body, he can feel that another two are situated under his hind legs. Going off what he’s seen his neighbor’s cat do, he leans the front half of his body down so his legs can stretch, and with them, his claws.

Desperate to find some sort of reflective surface, Liam stands tall once more and swivels his head around. He’s surrounded by a sea of grass, yellow and dried up, extending as far as the eye can see. Along the horizon he can make out several dark masses. They’re so far it's hard to tell exactly what they are, potentially a short mountain range. In between the waves of washed out yellow are patches of green. They’re treetops, so flat in shape, that sitting above scarce branches makes them look like hats more than protective greenery.

None of it can be of service in helping Liam confirm his suspicions.

_Wait, I don’t need anything other than my voice to tell me what I want to know._

With a deep inhale and all of his concentration, he opens his mouth to produce a thunderous roar, but to his utter dismay hardly anything comes out other than a strong growl.

“Would you keep it down, Your Royal Highness? Some of us are trying to take a nap.”

There’s no mistaking that voice.

“Zayn!” He chirps happily, spinning around with the expectation of another lion staring back at him. Instead, he gets a tree.

He’s about to call out once more, or better yet, use his enhanced sense of smell to sniff Zayn out when there’s movement from above.

Resting on the tree’s lowest branch is a young leopard, its legs hanging over the edge of the wood lifelessly. The animal’s nothing short of breathtaking. Even in the shade, his pale orange coat shines and black dots hypnotize.

“Shhh, I’ve got a nice spot,” he mumbles, whiskers twitching.

“Aw, come on Zayn!” Liam pleads childishly. “You can sleep when we go home. I want to see what I can do!”

“You can climb trees.”

“Really?”

Without having low branches to use as platforms to jump up, Liam doesn’t know how he’d be able to get to where Zayn is, at least two meters off the ground.

Then it dawns on him. Even if he can utilize his claws as a way up, Zayn just wants him there so he can go back to sleep.

Like it’s his prey, Liam stalks his way underneath Zayn’s lengthy tail that’s dangling over the side of his precious branch. Eyes narrowed, he tenses his haunches, then jumps. He bats at the appendage as if it’s a toy, but falls short.

The noise causes Zayn to crack open an eye, and when he sees what Liam’s trying to do, the other follows suit. “Hey!” Before he can curl his tail up for safekeeping, Liam just barely clips the end of it.

“Come down!” the lion demands, frustrated by his fun being taken away. “I want to go explore and try and find a waterhole.”

Once it becomes obvious that Liam won’t be able to handle entertaining himself, Zayn peers out at the great expanse of wildlife below him. “There’s one not too far from here. Maybe a ten minute walk.”

Like he’s a lazy house cat waking up from a nap in the sun, Zayn stands to stretch. After he’s balanced, he arches his back and yawns, showing off a set of pearly whites that no animal wants to be close enough to see. “I could use a drink,” he mumbles.

“I’ll race you!”

“Liam, you’re a lion, not a cheetah.”

Expertly, Zayn strides across his branch to the tree’s main trunk, then lets his front paws drag down the bark for a short distance before leaping the rest of the way to the ground. He lands with a powerful thud, his muscles rippling under his slick fur.

“Yeah, but cat’s are way faster than humans,” Liam debates. “I want to see what it’s like.”

“Fine, but-”

Zayn never gets the chance to finish, Liam’s leaving him in the dust, bolting forward and letting his instincts guide him into a powerful sprint. It only slows when Zayn yells from behind “you don’t even know where you’re going!”, but only enough that the other can catch up and run parallel with him, their heavy paws falling in sync and supplying the Serengeti with a rhythmic heartbeat. Even though he enjoys the wind flowing through his fur and the occasional brush it has with Zayn’s, Liam’s still far too competitive to hold back on making a mad dash for the oblong watering hole as soon as he spots it. And if he wasn’t so mesmerized by his reflection by the time Zayn caught up, he’d boast for coming in first too.

Because his mouth’s open from panting, the first thing that catches his eye is his teeth. They’re sharper than Zayn’s, though not as white, and while he’s not the violent type, knowing what he’s working with has Liam curious to see what they’d be like sunken into something. His eyes match the rest of his golden fur, and below them a snout with faint white whiskers. Right before the image is replaced with ripples from Zayn taking his first drink, he notices something missing.

“Where’s my mane?”

Zayn lifts his nose up enough to be able to answer without getting his chin wet. “You’re too young. We’re not even one.”

“Some lion I am,” Liam says, mildly let down after learning of his age. “I’m without a roar _and_ a mane.”

He’s about ready to lap up what he can to beat the heat when his head’s fully shoved under the water. At first, it brings immediate relief from the sun's strong rays, but then it gets to be too much and he finds himself fighting his way back to the surface, snorting out the liquid from his nostrils once he has.

At his side he can hear Zayn chuckle, and when he turns, he sees the leopard sitting on his haunches, cleaning his whiskers with one of his large paws. Liam doesn’t even think twice before he lunges and tackles him into the water, fully prepared for the subsequent attack that sends them both soaring backwards.

They stay in the shallow end, colossal splashes coming from each strike that ends in their combined weight plunging into the water. Liam always makes sure to put up a good fight, but Zayn’s strength is mightier than he’d anticipated, his muscles more intimidating. Feeling them pound into his upper body has an element of thrill and addiction that Liam won’t dare admit he’s in love with. It’s why he refuses to let his combat partner leave the water, continues to charge him any time he tries to bow out. Only when Zayn outrightly begs him for a rest and to let the others drink does Liam press pause on his shenanigans.

“This place is huge,” he says of the watering hole on the way out. “Why wouldn’t anyone else join us?”

“As a gazelle, would _you_ enter a lion and leopard’s line of sight?”

“You just want to stop because I was winning.”

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Liam shakes out his fur as close to Zayn as possible for the water droplets to disturb his peace. And if Zayn’s low growl of disapproval is anything to go by, it’s mission accomplished. He’s about to ask if he feels as cooled down as he does when there’s a familiar laugh cutting through the air.

“Is that Niall?” Liam asks, ears perked in the direction of the high pitched laughing.

He waits for the sound to come again, giggling along with it, feeding off its energy and nostalgic warmth.

“Hyena, Niall, same thing,” Zayn says apathetically, continuing with the cleaning of his short ears.

He’s not wrong. Liam never thought of it as comparable to a hyena, but now he won’t ever be able to hear it any differently.

“I’m guessing we can’t go say hi,” he supposes.

“You can certainly try. I’m going back to my tree.”

Liam’s attention gets stolen by the pack of hyenas starting up again, but when he turns his head back, Zayn’s already padding away.

“Can you teach me how to climb up with you?” He asks optimistically after galloping the few strides it took to catch up.

Since there’s not much to it, Zayn willingly agrees. All Liam needs to do is jump up, hug the tree with his limbs, and ascend by using his claws as anchors, it’s that easy.

And it really is. He gets it on the first try, joining Zayn on the branch he’s chosen and staring in wonderment at the view. They’re nowhere near as high, but from this vantage point, Liam feels like Simba looking out at his kingdom from Pride Rock. The problem is, such a calm atmosphere is literally all there is to admire. He needs more adventure.

“Where are you going?” Zayn asks when he feels the branch they’re both balanced on move under Liam’s weight.

“I want to practice climbing.”

Convinced that what he’s been told is true, Zayn gets cozy and prepares himself for a relaxing nap. His body levels with the branch as Liam’s adolescent claws scrape against the wood on his way down; when he hears the thud of the lion hitting the Serengeti floor, his eyes flutter shut.

 _Perfect_ , Liam thinks, staring up at the cat who’s just about to enter serenity.

From the back of his throat, he produces a strangled cry, flopping onto his side immediately after.

Zayn’s eyes shoot open and as soon as he spots the seemingly wounded lion, he jumps down to nose at Liam’s exposed underbelly.

“What happened? Where does it hurt?”

At a random prod, Liam fakes another groan, luring Zayn into believing he needs to come closer to inspect it. Once he does, Liam’s trap falls and he springs back to life, using his massive paws to pull Zayn into his body by the neck. From there, it’s easy to gather his strength and roll them over.

“You can’t feel pain in these worlds, remember?” Liam says, standing victorious, with his front paws pinning Zayn to the ground.

If it weren’t for how much pleasure he got out of watching Zayn’s jade green eyes turn a shade darker, maybe Liam would’ve been prepared for what comes after the leopard’s cunning, “good, then you won’t feel this”.

Lurching forward, Zayn sinks his teeth into Liam’s jugular with just enough force to switch him back into rambunctious mode like Liam had hoped his prank would, but not enough to break skin.

They continue to roll around in the grass and dirt, biting and clawing at one another until Liam’s kicked straight into a pile of bones. They’re from an impala, and have been picked clean by a vulture. It’s Liam voicing his desire to use the skull as a football that has Zayn retiring back to his tree limb.

“I don’t want to play sports in my real life,” he says on his way up, “what makes you think I want to play them in this one?”

Patiently, Liam watches the alluring cat stake its claim. “How much longer before we have to go back?”

“It’s the weekend, so we can stay longer than normal if you don’t have anything to do tomorrow. Just watch the sundial over there.”

Liam looks to where Zayn’s nodded his head - towards a spot of sand where a handful of rocks are arranged in a circle like numbers on a clock. A stick stands up in the center, casting a thin shadow towards a bright white stone that could very well be a fragment of bone instead.

“When it hits the triangle piece of granite, the rock with all the little holes in it, let me know. I’m just going to rest my eyes.”

Liam knows better than to believe that, but it doesn’t stop him from having any fun. He sticks close to the area surrounding Zayn and his tree, learning how to use his nose to sniff out different animal scents, and also how to not get upset when he finds a fresh one and scares away the animal responsible. But most of his time alone is spent pretending like he’s stalking prey in the taller splotches of yellow grass and getting lost in the intense pleasure that comes from rolling around on his back to alleviate an itch.

Yet no sensation hits him quite like the fierce sensation of comfort when, standing in the middle of the sundial, a black paw rests over his.

**Epilogue**

“I suppose all good things must come to an end.”

Atop his perch on Zayn’s armchair, Liam glances up from the man’s sketchbook they were going through to see what he’s referring to. It could be anything with such a perfectly situated vantage point, but one roarous laugh from behind the register and Liam’s fairly certain he’s found what he’s meant to be looking for.

Niall’s leaning with his hip against the register counter and his upper body tilted towards a brunette with fair skin now that she’s the only person in line. She’s also the only thing Niall’s been able to talk about for the past two weeks, and the upcoming Customer of the Month.

Between Harry’s nomination getting overridden for the second month in a row, Liam requesting the Friday before his birthday off, and the July florist bill coming out to be almost twice what it normally is thanks to an unauthorized order alteration during week two (“I assumed Liam ran it by you!” Harry had exclaimed in defense when Louis almost dropped to the floor as soon as he saw the bottom line), it had been quite the eventful staff meeting that morning. A real trainwreck that Josie had the pleasure of being an innocent spectator of.

“If this is about your free drinks, I think I might be able to talk to the manager,” Liam replies slyly.

A coy smile grows on Zayn’s lips as he shuts his sketchbook and crams it into the side cushion. “I’d appreciate that, but you owe me something else first.” He gives Liam a moment to try and recall what that might be before coming out and saying it. “An interview. Well, not the full one, just the last question.” When Liam’s still lost, he points to the blackboard that Niall’s now standing next to and going over for his prospective lover. “I told you that by the end of the month, you should be able to answer the last question with better responses than what you originally gave.”

That’s right, he did. Liam completely forgot about the wager they’d made. With the wild month he’s had, how could he be blamed?

“So, Liam Payne, tell me. What three words can be used to describe you? Good words, that’ll tell me who you are.”

_Who I am? Who I am. Who **am** I?_

_I’m not any different than I was when you asked a month ago. I’ve gone to work forty hours a week. I got a haircut like I always do on the tenth. I still haven’t managed to set a new bench press PR. July didn’t make me a different person, only gave me different experiences. I was able to explore fictional worlds. I started dating my longtime love interest. I dipped into my rainy day savings fund for the first time in a year._

_I’ve learned how to be ok with the silence._

“Can I give you more than three?” He asks, proud of the surprise that strikes Zayn and continuing on once he gets a joyous nod of approval.

“Before this month, I forgot that I can be creative.”

In his mind, a vile’s drawn up to capture the fondness that’s pouring out of the man before him.

“I’m dependable.”

Without taking his eyes away from Liam’s, Zayn brings his coffee up to his lips, its light colour similar to that of watered down whiskey.

“I’ve been told that I’m handsome. Which is a good thing,” Liam adds quickly, eliminating any room for contest, “because it can overshadow the fact that I’m not booksmart. I'm people smart instead.”

Above Zayn’s short mustache, there’s a small cut, left as a reminder not to shave pre-nap, always post.

“I’m brave,” Liam says while staring at the line, too faint to turn into a scar, but fresh enough to stay for at least another several days.

“And,” he pauses to think back on their desert adventure from the night before. “I’m excitable.”

Which is proven by the giggle that he can’t find the strength to hold back when Zayn’s leaning up to kiss him sweetly.

“You know, I had more questions on my list that day,” he confesses once his lips are his own again.

“Like what?”

“Like, where would you take your next holiday?”

“Somewhere warm,” Zayn replies longingly. “I’m always too afraid to go into my novel from last night because if I oversleep, I’m screwed. It’s easier for me to sleep as a cat, I don’t know why. And if I disappeared for a few days, my family might think I died.”

“I think I’d like to go to Africa,” Liam says, slumping down a bit further so his shoulder can lean against Zayn’s better. “And not just because of last night, but to taste the coffee. It’s like the promised land. Uganda, Ethiopia, Kenya. That’d be the dream.”

“Do it.”

“Yeah, right,” Liam huffs. “Do you know how much holiday I’d have to take off at once to do that sort of a trip properly? Weeks, _months_ if I really wanted to.”

“So quit.”

Sharply, Liam turns to make sure he’s just heard that correctly. “Quit my job?”

“Yeah,” Zayn sips from his mug casually. “Take some time off and just experience things. You’re always on about how you feel like you’re supposed to expect more from yourself, so if packing your camera and learning new perspectives from other cultures will help you come to terms with that or whatever, then do it. And Louis should think of it as an investment with all the knowledge you’d come back with. You’ll be fine.”

It’s such a sudden, far fetched idea that Liam has trouble even conceptualizing it, nevermind putting it into motion. It’d be the ultimate coffee lover’s trip, there’s no doubt about that, but quit his job? Just like that? Snip the string that’s responsible for holding up his spine? People talk about doing crazy things like that, but none actually do it, do they?

“I think what we should be focusing on is our trip to London,” Liam deflects cheerfully. “Louis approved my day off, so let's talk about that, not some fantasy of mine.”

In his ever present, relaxed state of being, Zayn pats the younger male’s thigh that’s balanced on his armchair and smiles brightly. “Whatever you want Liam.”

 _And then some_ , is what he should’ve said, because when the weekend of August 29th comes around, he outdoes himself.

The moment they step foot in their hotel room Friday, Liam’s bombarded with birthday surprises. Balloons and confetti are spread everywhere throughout the room, just like it is at the pub Zayn takes them to on Saturday night after the fancy restaurant he made reservations at that served them a personalized dessert of cheesecake in the shape of the numbers “2” and “7”. The place is filled with his friends and family, some of whom he hasn’t seen in ages. Like Andy.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” Liam shouts over the music and general chatter that the pub returns to now that the birthday boy’s showed up and there’s no longer a need to be on alert so their “surprise!” is yelled at the right time.

Andy brings the man in for a bear hug, “I wouldn’t miss your birthday, are you kidding? Especially not when it’s in my neighborhood.”

“But how?”

“I stole your phone when you were sleeping a couple weeks ago,” Zayn answers in the lift up to their room later on after even Niall’s had enough to drink. “Your cafe mates were easy. The family bit was a little harder, but it all worked out in the end. Helps that I don’t have sleep to get in the way of things like planning surprise parties.”

“It’s a good thing it’s over then, because I’m gonna make you sleep well tonight.”

At the ding of the lift reaching their floor, Liam grabs the man by his olive green button down and drags him to their room. It’s a lot harsher of a drag than the ones he administers the next day on their extensive coffee shop crawl that took weeks to map out and only five minutes for Liam to forget about the hassle. Two days on, and he’s still thinking about it.

“Do you remember that macaroon we had at the place with the Hawaiian blend?” He asks Zayn from the man’s sofa, upside down with a random German graphic novel he pulled off the shelf behind him in his hands.

Zayn’s desk chair squeaks loudly, “babe, I couldn’t remember anything that specific even if I tried.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Liam dismisses, righting his posture when Zayn’s abandoning his work to join him. “I still can’t believe how much effort you went to this weekend. You really didn’t have to for just me.”

He should know by now what a comment like that will get him.

Initially, it’s unclear why Zayn would bring him into a world centered around pirates; he even jokes as much when the man tells him he’s the Master Rigger.

“Are we here because you want me to teach you knots?” He asks, climbing halfway up one of the masts, strictly because he can, baggy, rugged clothes flapping in the wind.

Admittedly, it’s the dumbest assumption he could’ve ever made.

Within seconds, the man keeping lookout calls out that a rival ship’s approaching starboard, which triggers a lengthy speech from the captain, who could be Harry’s doppelgänger if he grew out his hair just a few centimeters longer. He’s clear with his orders: no one is being held captive. We fight together, we die together. Every person a part of his brigade is worth something.

And he truly means that, because when it comes down to the wire and the only way to save the boat from sinking is to surrender over their best men, he refuses. Even hanging on to the last of his ship’s planks in the vast blue of the ocean like the rest of the crew, he demands no one hand themselves over.

“Do you see now?” Zayn says when they’re huddled under Liam’s green throw on the couch, safe from drowning. “How much you’re worth?”

In a flash, Liam’s framing Zayn’s face with his hands and kissing him soundlessly.

“Come to Africa with me,” he whispers the moment they break for air.

There’s no need for words, Zayn’s kiss is all the response he needs.

Neither gets much done for the rest of the evening, they’re too preoccupied looking up flights and plantation tours and visa information and weather charts to be bothered with reading or drawing. And it stays that way until November, when they’re finally boarding an early morning plane to Nairobi and there’s nothing left to dream about, it’s all playing out, right in front of Liam’s eyes.

“Would you sit still?” Zayn chuckles, taking what he needs out of his backpack before shoving it under the seat in front of him. “Here, look at this until they turn the films on.”

“It’s my first time on a plane,” Liam reminds him bitterly, though it doesn’t stop him from accepting the sketchbook that’s being handed to him any less quickly.

He opens to a hyper-realistic drawing of a single Nike shoe. It’s nearly 3-D with how it’s angled, to the point that Liam dares touch the check mark symbol that has tiny loose strings around its stitching just to make sure that it’s not.

The next page is covered in stripes of colours, almost like a scrap sheet for Zayn to test out colour shades up against each other for a separate picture living on another page.

He’s in the middle of examining a fine point pen sketch of a dollhouse with its inner rooms exposed when a streak of orange catches his eye.

At his side, Zayn’s setting up his pencil pouch above the orange sketchbook that Liam’s only ever seen him work in from afar during morning hours. He’s never thought of it as a secret, just another one of Zayn’s sketchbooks that happened to have a bright cover; he never felt the need to ask him why that was. But now, he wished he had.

There’s a clear adhesive flag that’s sticking out of the side like a bookmark. When Zayn flips straight to it, Liam’s met with a quickly drawn sketch of himself, birthmark and all, next to a version of Zayn, laying on a mountain of luggage.

“What is that?”

“This is my autobiography,” Zayn replies indifferently, not worried in the least at what Liam might think about seeing himself be a subject of that without having given consent first. “In graphic novel form, of course.”

“And that’s me?” Liam says, pointing to the rendering of him, eyes closed in bliss regardless of the uncomfortable bags digging into his back.

“I didn’t think my drawing was that rubbish.”

“No, I mean, it looks like me,” Liam rushes. “It looks a lot like me, I just wasn’t expecting to see it.”

While he unzips his pouch to find an appropriate choice of pen, Zayn enlightens him. “Most people who know about graphic novels are like you, they know about them because of comics. What they fail to realize is how many sub genres make up the larger one. There’s tons of adventure, horror, sci-fi, romance. But there are also historical depictions and memoirs that are super impactful. I’m not sure if I’ll ever publish this because it’s rough, I’d have to go back and touch it up like mad, but I think it’s a cool way to use the art form. Don’t you think?”

The simple answer’s yes, so that’s what Liam says, but it doesn’t even come close to how he really feels, waking up in hotel rooms to Zayn drawing out their recent days on the road. It’s inspiring - the passion Zayn has for his creations, and the talent that he has to be able to do them justice. It stays with Liam day in and day out. Through Africa, where he asks Zayn to pinch him just about every time they visit a new plantation harvesting fresh berries for roasting. Then through Central America, where they wind up after Liam expresses his hunger to continue on and Zayn receives a sizable bonus for turning in his mystery book on time.

But eventually, they run out of coffee season, and money, frankly, and head back to Wolverhampton. Which ends up looking a lot more like home and less like an island he was shipwrecked on than when they were last here five months ago. Now that Liam’s been able to see himself more clearly, far removed from any plaintive hometown curse, the city holds a lot more promise in his eyes.

“How much longer do you think this next novel will take you?” He asks when they’re unpacking at what’s now his _and_ Zayn’s flat since their leaving coincided with the latter’s lease ending. “You finished a lot on the plane.”

“Formula One cars are a lot easier to draw than Victorian estates, but I don’t know. I want to watch more footage to get the main race right.” Jeans with mud up to the knees get tossed in the laundry pile. “Ready for your dinner with Louis?”

Liam’s pulse quickens, at the mention of the meeting. “I’ve gone over my speech a hundred times. I think it’s as good as it’s gonna get, but I’m asking for a lot. I’m not sure he’ll go for it.”

“He will.” Putting a pause to his sifting, Zayn steps into the other’s space and wraps his arms around him in comfort. “With how much money Early Bird makes, he’d be a fool not to open a second location and make it yours.” Before he leans in, there’s a finger coming between their lips. “But,” he says sternly, “even if he says yes right away, don’t forget the most important stipulation to your terms.”

Liam’s heart begins singing the song it knows best.

“No one can be the Customer of the Month except you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This was a simple theme in comparison to my others. All it revolved around was a person in their mid-20’s coming to terms with the fact that it’s ok to go through life without all the super high peaks or super low valleys. It’s totally ok to feel alright with your life being habitual and not that you need to find yourself beyond that. Now, Liam obviously went on tons of adventures to learn he’s not as boring as he thinks he is, but still, in the end, he comes to terms with the fact that he loves coffee and there’s nothing wrong with that being it. Perhaps he needs a little more upwards trajectory with his career, so he braces himself to ask Louis to open a second location that he can be in charge of completely, but even then. He doesn’t end up leaving Wolverhampton, or even opening up his own shop - which says a lot about his character.
> 
> Also, this was a HUGE appreciation piece for graphic novel subgenres. I went through a lot of lists trying to narrow down what type of words/books I could have them jump into and was blown away by the amount of subgenres within the “graphic novel” section. And I know the epilogue was a tad crammed, but it was super important to include “autobiography” as one of them because it’s overlooked like crazy, but is actually a big section.
> 
> As for the next fic...I’ve been holding out on mentioning this for a while, but I have such loyal readers with notifications on and telling me that they’re always checking for my stuff, that I feel like it’s only right to let people in on my plans. I’ve been accepted to several prestigious writing programs overseas to pursue a full-time career as an author and have decided to take the place in London. I’ve lived in London in the past, so it’ll be nice to go back. However, while I’ve been accepted as a romance author, I’m going to be working on pieces that are much more literary based and serious than what fics typically end up reading like. I love liam and zayn, as individuals and as personalities that play off one another so perfectly, so I will continue to use them as my muse for these future stories, but if I post them on here, please expect that sort of a read, as well as the turn around probably being a lot longer than 3 months.
> 
> I have zero creative writing background, nor any experience in English past High School. Writing wasn’t something I EVER thought I’d be doing. I have undergrad degrees in Film Management and Geography as well as a masters in International Business/Corporate Strategy. I worked in the entertainment industry before I decided to take some time off and focus on my mental health and ended up starting to write. Becoming an author is such a wild thing to envision myself as, and I wouldn’t be doing that if it weren’t for the feedback I’ve gotten from all of you, taking the time to click on my stories, leaving kudos and comments, bookmarking them, putting me on rec lists (seriously way more I could’ve ever thought of being on), talking about my work on other social media sites, sending links to your friends. I mean, the analytics are crazy. On most stories I have people reading from over fifty countries around the world. I’m very nervous about the future and getting these stories hopefully published one day (after lots and lots of rewrites), but a person can dream and work hard.
> 
> So one massive thank you to all of you once again. I hope to see you with a new fic sometime in the winter/new year. I’m going to be talking about it and also continue to put out writing updates, maybe other small stories I work on in the program, on my “other” site, that I can’t mention bc of ao3 monetary rules. So, if you’d like to support me like others have been so generous to do, click [ HERE](https://ziamhaze.tumblr.com/patreon) .
> 
> It’s also got the Behind the Scenes page for this fic and all my others. Including:
> 
> \- Inspiration photos incl. ziam outfits worn  
> \- A graphic novel recommendation list that I put together from some of my favourites I read in preparation for this story  
> \- All 30+ research links  
> \- A write up on why I never really mention sexuality for my characters  
> \- My strategy behind creating my picspams as advertisements  
> \- Another coming soon on things I would add/rewrite to past stories (sequels?)  
> \- And more!
> 
> For general questions or to just say hey, I’m always available on my [ tumblr](https://ziamhaze.tumblr.com/patreon) .
> 
> Feel free to spread the love through picspam [ here ](https://ziamhaze.tumblr.com/post/628624942255276032/ziam-ficrec-customer-of-the-month-by-ziamhaze) too.
> 
> Again, I cannot say thank you enough for everyone’s kind words/support/clicks. It really has turned my world upside down.


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